In the Metro
by 10000reasons
Summary: So, in honor of the coming game Metro Exodus and its predecessors I wrote this for myself and my fellow Metro fans. See the life of the PAW Patrol inside the deadly Moscow metro tunnels, and how they survive the post apocalyptic world of Metro.
1. Chapter 1: The 400th Meter

If this is at all popular, I am willing to do more. I just…need to finish my most important project. I know I'm wasting time and posting so slowly, but I promise it will be finished. It will! If you haven't played the game Metro 2033 or Last Light, or even read any of the books, then I implore you to do so. This will be more heavily based on the book.

X X X X

No matter how close you could be to the fire, the atmosphere of the tunnels were enough to send a chill in your bones. No fire's warmth could reach that. The four hundredth meter was the last position before you would be walking into nothing but a long-stretched darkness. It was their job to ensure that whatever was inside that tunnel didn't get past them without proper challenging. If it meant no harm, it needed to have papers, if it did, it needed to die. This had been Chase's job for…he had to think. Six years now. And if it wasn't that, it was tending to his sick father. Chase sipped his tin mug cautiously. Inside was nothing but boiled water since the last shift had finished the tea on sight. Anyone standing watch now, being so used to having tea at their post, had neglected to carry a replacement supply with them. As such, he had to pretend that there was a wonderful flavor being delicately and cautiously sipped through his lips, into his mouth, and down his throat. However, Chase's imagination wasn't actually that strong and every sip, expecting warm tea shipped from Adnkh had been met with bleak disappointment. Chase sighed and put the mug down with lost hope of ever tasting a hot cup of tea for his last, and longest, hour of a six-hour watch.

Across from him, there was a man with a thick beard, long coat, and knitted cap. The man, as Chase knew him, was in his forties. He spoke with a hoarse voice, which had probably been because of all the smoking he had done. His name was Boris. "Well, boys, we've got one more hour and still no tea. Does someone want to see if any of the other posts wants to spare a supply?"

A younger boy, Anatoly, just a year younger than Chase, who was twenty-one, had spoken up. "I already asked but they said they wouldn't give us any. I told them that it was only one supply and that they looked like they had plenty and we had none, but they just shooed me away like an annoying cat, bellowing at the door."

"Hurumph," Boris made is sound as if he was laughing or maybe just grunting. Chase didn't know which. "Well, you do talk a lot. How long were you begging?"

"I was asking," Detested the boy, "Not begging, and I only asked once then tried to convince them. They all practically said the same thing. The bastards. They probably stole our tea and won't give it back."

Another member at the fire laughed at him. "That's rich. What else did they steal? Your bullets?" Chase chuckled with the group of five. If Chase counted himself, they were six. "If they had stolen our tea, you idiot, we would have known. Besides, we all run the same shift. They wouldn't have time."

"Okay, okay, so it wasn't them. But still, they could at least spare some, right?" Asked Anatoly.

Boris shook his head, "No, like us, they're too greedy. Besides, would you spare some tea if they asked us? Especially in these dark tunnels? These tunnels send a chill in your bones only this tea can warm. And even then, you have to continually drink in order to keep that warmth. The fire here can warm your body from the outside, but the tea warms within. If they gave up a supply, that warmth could very well run out. If we had that, I can tell you right now, we wouldn't even let one bag leave us. Not one."

Chase had to agree. He knew he wouldn't spare his tea. Every time he looked down the tunnel that shiver returned and he had to sip his hot water, but the water didn't have the same comforting effect as the tea. What he wouldn't give just one cup. Just one. It was a miracle how much time passed if you focused on how full your cup was, rather than how much time was left of your watch. Chase had calculated that a single watch took up maybe eight cups of tea. It depended on how frightened you were of the darkness. But on any other watch, like today's, he could easily track how much time was left by how many cups he consumed.

"Maybe, but maybe it's because they don't spare any of theirs!" Anatoly argued.

"Hah, that old bullshit?" Boris laughed, "Trust me, boy, the old rules of morality no longer apply. Good graces no longer stimulates humanism. But speaking of old rules…" Boris grinned at Chase. "Have you given any thought on what I said?"

Chase realized Boris was talking to him. He had zoned out trying to use his imagination to make the water taste like tea. When he looked up, he found all eyes on the four hundredth meter were on him. "Oh, uh…what was that? About what?"

" 'What was that?' " Boris laughed, "As if you didn't know. I mean the girl! The one you talk about that works as a waitress in the restaurant that serves pork, mushrooms, and a good drink all for eighteen bullets. Hell of a price but well worth it, right? It's better than rat."

Chase never found anything wrong with rat. He actually liked eating rat, maybe because he was used to it. But the girl he spoke of was none other than Skye. Chase looked away so he could smile privately as he let the name quietly slip past his lips. He had heard her name when her father would call her and she would answer to it. He often whispered the name just to savor it. "Ah, that girl. Yes, well… She's too young. I really think it would be better for us both if I waited."

Boris shook his head and sighed. "I told you, boy, the old rules don't apply anymore. You can argue all you want about the age and moral of it all, but it doesn't change the fact that the old human ways have died out on the surface and the new ways are much different, though born from the old. This 'age gap' as you call it, is small anyway and…what was it? The laws of marriage? What law now says that she must be eighteen to marry you? She's what? Fourteen, thirteen?"

Chase hesitated at first but corrected, "Sixteen."

"Ah, even better." Boris said cheerfully. "See my meaning? We would accept it if she were but thirteen and you are afraid because she is sixteen. Let me tell you something, come close." He leaned in. Chase leaned in as well and even got up from his seat and sat next to Boris. Anatoly and the others leaned in to hear as well. Just in case it was some old man wisdom on how to get a girl. Something they too would want to hear and even try. "Now, Kitai-Gorod is half man half Muslim. And a man once told me that, by right of the Koran, you can have any woman you want, so long as she isn't married, i think. But you see, my boy? In these tunnels it is not the man with morals that makes the laws. It's the man who is followed that makes them. In this case, we can have any women we want and only half the population would frown at you. The other half would turn away because of a written law in an old book of religion. In fact, I was once told, in my youth, by another man that in the language the Muslims once spoke, a language I don't know the name of. I no longer care anyway since we all speak Russian. The point is, that language they had spoken once has no word for rape. Because a Muslim man can have any woman he wants and she could not reject him unless she was married."

Chase didn't know what to say to that. To think he was living in a station that had men that did not define rape by forcing a woman pleasure him was shocking. Were they all like that? Didn't they have moral too? They must have if they served some god they didn't know existed or not. Was that a moral? Chase was silently thinking all of this. He was quiet for some time. Even the fire had waited for his response as it flicked dimly letting him know it could not live in this anticipation. Finally, Chase sighed and returned to his seat. He gripped his machine gun behind him and stared at the fire before looking at Boris. "I'm not a Muslim."

Boris shrugged and nodded. "Yes, that's true. But have you considered that you are a man living in a Muslim world? Muslim or not…their rules are laws."

Chase shook his head and retorted, "No, Hansa makes the laws. The Muslims are just in their good graces."

With that, Boris fell silent. The dimly lit fire, no longer waiting, had not yet brightened until Anatoly had put three longs inside of it. This earned a hiss from Boris.

"Tss, that's too many! Do you want the next watch to stand in the dark?" He scolded.

"W-well the fire was getting low, I didn't want to stand watch in the dark. Besides, its small as it is." Anatoly said, a bit shaken by Boris's hoarse scolding.

"You idiot, we don't need the fire bright, we need it lit. Just be happy we don't use a lamp instead!" Boris continued to scold.

Before he could go on, the next watch had come. One of them had chuckled and said to them, "Well, it seems you boys are busy. Do you need a moment?"

Boris stood up and shouldered his machine gun. "No, I was just scolding the boy. He wants you to stand watch in the dark."

"I don't, really, I don't," Anatoly defended.

"Stand in the dark?" Asked the relief. He clicked his tongue a couple of times. "Anatoly, so heartless. I didn't know you had it in you. If you'd like, you can stay with us. That way you don't have to walk in it."

"No!" Anatoly shouted. It echoed through the tunnel where even the three hundredth and two hundredth meter guard had readed their machine guns, just in case.

"Shh," Boris again hissed, "Do you want to wake the tunnel? Let is sleep."

By now, Chase had shouldered his machine gun and packed his things, such as his tin mug, which he poured out in the tunnel. A relief tapped his shoulder. "Hey, anything we need to know?"

Chase shook his head, "It was all quiet when we started. Just as it is now. I hope you brought more tea, because the last watch used it up and I don't imagine the other watches sharing."

The men sighed and cursed. The relief nodded and sighed as well. He thanked Chase and took a seat in the place he was. Chase took a few steps away from the post. Boris and Anatoly were just ten paces ahead. But Chase froze and turned around. He was hesitant at first, but eventually he had made the offer that he thought he'd regret later. "I could…bring some if you'd like."

They looked at him, eyes brightened by the offer. "Would you?" Asked another relief.

"Yes, just let me put my things away and come back later," He replied. "I'll bring enough for just the six hours. I don't have a lot of bullets."

One of them stood up and hugged him with their strong arms, "Bless you, Chase. Bless you. Go ahead, now. We'll be waiting for you."

Chase left feeling very proud of himself. It would be the first thing he did once he got back to the station. He promised himself. Chase caught up to Boris and Anatoly and walked behind the five watch standers until they reached the gate. They were asked for their papers and let through one by one. Once past, they went into the guard office where they were given ten bullets worth of pay then let loose to rest, eat, and drink. But Chase had a different plan. He had a task to complete before settling back in his tent where his father and mother were waiting. He went to a tent that had said on it, "General Store" and looked for the supply of Exhibition tea. Exhibition was another name for Adnkh. Despite its name it was nothing to look at. The only good the station really had was its tea recipe. There was nothing like it in all the metro. After finding a square tin container full of it, he brought it to the clerk and asked for its price.

"Ten bullets," The clerk replied.

"Ten?" Chase echoed in surprise. That was all he earned in a day! He barely had enough now to get himself something to eat! But he couldn't just go back on his promise. "Ten bullets? That's so expensive. Why?"

"Because that's tea from Adnkh, the real deal," The clerk replied sourly, "That's their special recipe. Their very best. If you have a problem with it, put it down and look elsewhere for your tea!"

Chase recoiled at his outburst and stared at the container. He couldn't just hand over everything he earned in the day just to help some boys who would have to struggle the way he did out in the four hundredth meter… But he couldn't go back on his promise either. Chase sighed. He would have to disappoint the boys. He put the tin box down and was about to exit when he saw…her.

Skye had entered the tent and looked around the tent and spotted the tin box. It was then she noticed Chase. They locked eyes. Chase, gave a weak smile that looked more like a twitch then a smile but he left too quickly before he could explain it was a smile. It was then at the corner of his eye that he saw her grab the tin box and ask the clerk the same question.

"Ten bullets," He replied again.

"Ten?" Skye asked. "But… that's so expensive." She gripped his sleeve and closed in, "Please, could we settle for lower? My father needs his tea, he's sick, sir. Please."

The clerk smirked as she placed a spell on him. "Alright, darling, how about five?"

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" She kissed his hand. Chase gave the clerk a shocked expression then exited the tent. Not only had he been unable to get the tea, but now it was going with a girl he could hardly talk to. As kind as she was, he wouldn't stomach approaching her and haggling for it. He would come off as some beggar with a gun. Maybe that would look threatening. He didn't want to scare her. Chase sighed and leaned onto a nearby pillar and sunk down. He contemplated how to cope with this failure. The four hundredth meter was waiting on him and he would come back empty handed.

"Here," He suddenly heard.

Chase froze and lifted his face from his hands then looked up. There she was, a bright smile and an outstretched tin box. Was that…! Chase widened his eyes and took the box hurriedly then examined it. It was! The tea! She got if for him?

"Thanks…eh, how much did it cost you? I can pay you back," He offered as he stood up reaching for some cartridges. He didn't care anymore. He knew she only spent five, but for her, he'd give her anything. He stretched out the ten but her small hands closed his and pushed it back.

"No need to thank me. I was happy to do it." She smiled. That smile. Chase had lost himself in it. He was enjoying it like the rays of the sun back in the days when the sun was a wonderful thing. He had forgotten to reply. Because of this she spoke again. "Well, I best be going. Enjoy your tea."

Chase didn't want her to leave, not yet. He spoke up, though he didn't know why. Anything, something for a longer conversation! "Oh, its…not for me. It's for my relief?"

Skye lifted an eyebrow. "Your…relief?"

Chase nodded as dumbly as he stood. "Uh, yeah. You see, I stand watch at the four hundredth meter outside the gate, over there!" He pointed. "My post ran out of tea and I thought I'd bring some to them."

Skye smiled. "Is that why I don't see you at the market often? I see you once in a while, but when the crowed is lower and the clock makes its second rotation for the day You are usually getting some rats from across my father's stand. You like rat?"

Chase didn't know what to answer. What did she sell? Did she sell rats too? No, wait it was fish. He let thought run through his head but cautiously, nervously nodded his head.

"I see," Skye wasn't smiling anymore. Maybe that was the wrong answer. "That's a shame." Definitely, the wrong answer. He cursed himself for ever seeing an edible rat. He wished he had never even seen a rat on a skewer. "Have you ever considered fish?" Chase felt a spark of hope once more. Perhaps she was only trying to sell her product! Yes, anything for her!

"No…well, yes, actually. I just… well, I never gave it that much… thought." He began tracing the old logo on the tin box of tea. The painting on it was worn but he could still trace the art with foreign letters on top. What could he say to keep the conversation going, to make it sound interesting for her? He was at a loss.

"Well, maybe you should. I can teach you how to make it. just come by, I'll even throw in a discount for your first purchase." She offered. The offer itself had made his heart flutter. He couldn't believe she would do something so kind! Well, he did, but he just couldn't help but be surprised by it.

"You would, well, after I drop off this tea, I'll head over straight away!" Chase said a bit too eagerly. Her cursed himself again for being so obvious. He started playing with the tin box more viciously, nocking it between his right hands middle finger and thumb.

"I will be waiting," She smiled. Then she left.

Chase would have said another thing just to hear her voice a little while longer…but he said nothing. He couldn't. It was impossible now. Even if there was no barrier or wall stopping him, his conscience held him back. He instead looked at the box of tea she had bought him for half the price he would have had to pay. He no longer waisted time. He fixed the machine gun on his shoulder and walked out of the station once more to deliver the tea. When he had delivered it he had stayed for a minute to hear them thank him and pat his back then receive five bullets for thanks. He accepted them, finding it a bit strange how they had payed hi exactly how much the case had costed Skye rather than him, but pocketed them and went on his way. Returning to the station, he had gone to the market and first bought his father's medicine. That itself was four bullets. The bottles were small and there weren't very many pills inside. however, they weren't separate doses. Instead it was two shots of pills for a day's pneumonia. With a pain killer, an antibiotic, and a fever reducer it was relatively ideal for just about any illness but in this case, it would be for pneumonia. And there was two of each. On for morning and the other for evening. Though it seemed cheap, take a closer look and one would find they were paying maybe as much as four times the price of a single full bottle in the old world, maybe more, maybe less. Still, it was affordable, and Chase could pay for it with what he had earned. That's all he needed. After that, he had forgotten his promise and went to the rat stand again. It wasn't until he heard someone whistle that he turned around to the reminder.

"You! Over here! Remember?" She cheerfully called. Waving her hand vigorously.

How could he have forgotten? He scolded himself. Left the line of people waiting to get two rats on a skewer and instead visited the stand with "fresh fish from Venice?" Chase had heard of Venice but with it such a long way could anyone really claim that the fish was fresh?

"I'm so sorry," Chase smiled forgetting his inward rant. "I forgot."

"That's what happens when you live the same life over and over again, my friend." She said with an accusatory finger wiggling between then. "Now, usually, we sell our fish for six bullets each. But for you, today, because I promised, I'll give you three fish, for six bullets instead."

Chase's eyes nearly popped form their sockets, "Six bullets for a fish and you'll give me three for the same price? How could I say no?"

"See, I keep my promises, and unlike a greedy clerk, between you and me, I keep prices fair. I think we both know that the actual price for that tea, was five bullets, not ten. I know because that's what he lowered it to. If he couldn't get it for double, then he would get it for what it's worth."

Needless to say, Chase was impressed. "You learned that from the trading business?"

"Yes, I did," She smiled and leaned closer, "My father uses the very same tactic." She looked down at the fish and winked. "Just a tip to keep in mind."

This was all good and well, Chase thought, but why tell him? What did he do to deserve such a great tip? Would she provide a discount like this often? Was she planning on opening her own shop…did she see him as a future business partner? He shook his head making look like he was stretching it, but really, he was shaking the thought away. No, he couldn't be so lucky. Though he might as well ask. "Why tell me this? This is the first we talked, despite all the times we looked at each other, it's technically the first time we've seen each other."

Skye smiled but didn't answer. She gave him a wink and changed the subject while the silence between them was still there. "So, do you want to see how these are cooked? I wouldn't want you to bring them home and try eating them raw. It isn't healthy. It's near the end of the day, but my father won't be home today. He's out on a trade to get another shipment of fish. Between you and me," she began again with her little secrets, "These fish are a day old. not exactly fresh, but still within the limits you can call healthy. At east, that's what he says. Nothing a thorough cooking can't cure." She grabbed the last three fish which she promised him at a low price and closed up shop. Then she led him inside. She opened the door to the tent and stepped aside so he could walk in first. He did so hesitantly but once he did, he was met with a wonderful warmth. Unlike the rest of the station, including his home, it was quite cold, but her home was warm as the glow of a fire. He couldn't see a fire anywhere though.

"My father makes quite twice the amount he buys his product, and as such gets a little to keep for himself and me. He buys a lot of great things from the stalkers. The heat your feeling is an old heater one found a few months ago. And to make it more useful, he also found this hand crank generator that powers our tent. Just a few circles and it has enough charge to power everything in here for a few days. Then I just crank it again." She made a few circles to make her point. Each movement made the lights glow just a bit brighter. She had working electricity in her tent, working lights, rather than lamps, and a heater rather than a fire. Her life was what only the entire station dreamed for.

"It's amazing," Chase complimented, "You and your father are very blessed."

"I know," She smiled, "But…there's one catch."

She started to frown and look down. Chase didn't like seeing her like this. "What is it?"

She looked back up and a smile grew back, "Nothing. I promised to teach you, yes? Well here. She took the fish and placed them on a table nearby. She picked up a knife and started to rub it against the side of the fish. "The first thing you need to do is scrape the scales off. Otherwise biting into it may be met with a less pleasant texture. She continued to teach him then after preparing the fish gave him a portion and kept one some for herself. She took a bite then smiled at him waiting for him to do the same. He smelled the fish being skeptical at first. He never tried food like this.

After taking a bit he gave a nod of approval and took another bit, "This is good. It is worth six bullets." He dug into his pocket once more then counted out the six to pull out. He extended the cartages as he was still chewing and finishing the fish. She only stared at his hand. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head and replied as she took the bullets, "It's nothing. What's your name? I never caught it."

Chase hummed as if her had just realize something. "Sorry, I forgot. I'm Chasovnya. Chasovnya Petrovich. My friends call me Chase. They think it suites me better. You may as well."

"Chase?" Skye smiled. "Well, I'm Skye Malinovsky, I am pleased to meet you, Chase. And your friends are right, it suites you very well."

Chase looked at the outstretched hand then placed his plate down to shake it. After the quick pleasantry, they had talked for a while. Chase wanted this to last forever. They spoke about her family, how her mother died during the bombing and how her father was a store owner in Moscow. She even went into detail when she had visited Venice and other stations. By far, her life was more exciting and, in a way, more dangerous than his. He envied her, but that's what made her so much more attractive. Chase had remembered Boris's words. How a man here in the station could basically take whatever woman he liked since it was practically Muslim. He couldn't do it too. no one would stop him. he had a machine gun, chambered and fully loaded. She was weak, he could tell, and he was so much stronger. If we wanted to, he could make her show him her room and then take her. But he remembered his words too. He wasn't a Muslim. Of course, he asked himself the same question after that. Are all of them really that way? Obviously not. He had met too many, made friends with too many that wouldn't even fathom the thought of cornering a woman. It was this that made Chase think Boris was wrong and the man who told him that was bullshitting him. But still, if this were his day every day, he wouldn't mind it. but he knew his father needed his medicine soon.

"Well, Skye, it was an honor to meet you. I'm very grateful that you taught me how to make fish. Now I can make it for my family. They will need me soon, so I must leave you."

Skye had frowned. It was clear she wanted him to stay longer. And he would. He would if he just didn't need to worry about his sick father. "You really have to go then? You can't stay for an hour more?"

Chase shook his head, "No, not an hour more. I will see you again, I promise. tomorrow?"

Skye looked down and shook her head, "No, not tomorrow. My father will be home and he does not like it when men visit us. He has seen too many look at me in ways that make him…uncomfortable…but when I saw you, I knew you weren't like that…I feels safer, Chase. I feel…much safer, when you are in the market. I don't know why, but I just do. Maybe it's because your armed and you look at me so…innocently. I don't even know why I told you those things. Why I let you in and taught you to cook a fish. I just…wanted to feel that safety…closer." Chase leaned over himself as he sat. His Kalash was sitting against the chair next to him now. For some reason he felt as if he should be keeping it closer though. But Skye had somehow assured him with a soft smile. "I'm sorry, I felt like…you needed to know that. I didn't mean to keep you. I hope I will see you again. maybe when my father is away, you can come here again, and we can talk some more."

Chase's heart began to palpitate. He started sweating, was it the heat? He felt a rush of excitement. To do this again…with her. He would talk ages with her. Yes, he would love that. "I would like that. Thank you." She smiled. They stared at each other for some time. Chase inhaled sharply, realizing that he had to move now. "Well, I'll leave now." He shouldered his machine gun and started towards the door, "Thank you again. And take care."

"You too, be safe," She called out.

Chase reached the door then froze. His hand was just an inch away from it now. Skye looked puzzled. Chase turned to face her and opened his mouth a few times, debating whether to same something or not. Finally, he let out, "If you ever run into trouble, call me. I will come." The words seemed to mean something to her. She looked surprised but touched. "Even if your mouth is gagged, even if you are far from help. Call for me, I will come…somehow. I will find you. I will protect you as best I can. You just have to call." And with that, he left. He stepped out into the cold and noisy metro station, but even still, he could hear her crying on the other side. Chase smiled softly and began his walk home. His family was waiting.


	2. Chapter 2: The Stalkers

Ryder breathed slowly as he looked through the scope of his valve. On the other side of his rifle he could clearly see two human figures. One of them turned their flashlight on and blinked a code. In turn Ryder took his, not removing his eyes form the scope and flashed it on. Returning a signal. The two below continued cautiously to cross the snow and ice-filled surface of Moscow. He was atop a broken apartment while they were walking the streets of the city. Where they were walking filled with crevices and greenery that hung down over the irradiated rivers of water. If he listened carefully enough, he could hear the flapping and growling of a creature in the air. They called them demons. Ryder wanted to avoid them if he could, but if it led to it, he'd shoot it before it even reached his team. The building around them were nothing but skeletons of a city's former glory. They entered into the building which was their intended target and Ryder lost sight of them. He waited a while until they came out and signaled with their flashlights again. He returned the signal then examined the area around them as they started to return. Once they reached the bottom of the building, he was in he stepped back and away from the edge of the window and started down the stares of the building to meet them.

"Well? What did you find?" He asked the mask making his voice sound deeper than it actually was.

"Not much, a few schematics maybe? I found this old map. I think it's a map." Said the male. Rocky, they called him. His actually name was Rastislav, but he earned the name Rocky and had forgotten to respond to the name Rastislav when it was called. What he pulled out was a long rolled up poster. When they opened it up it was mostly faded and scorched but the words, "the world" were barely legible.

"It's a world map," The female said. Her name, as they called it, was Everest. She, unlike her two heavily armored brothers, preferred lighter quieter weapons then the loud heavy arms. It was her philosophy that one could take out more demons if the demons couldn't see them rather than in the demons saw and engaged them head on. As such, she had carried a pneumatic weapon instead of a valve, like Ryder, or shambler, like Rocky. But she couldn't argue with them. It wasn't worth arguing over. "This is what I've found."

Ryder looked over Everest's bag of goods and nodded satisfyingly. "So, schematics and a world map and some toys and baubles. Well, it's not our worst run. we'd better go. We've already been gone too long."

They started walked back of the building where they had a stash of random assortment of things and packed up the goods. They looked for the ladder where they could climb into the metro then pushed a red button beside a big solid metal door. The door opened and let the three in. They dragged their stuff in and the door closed behind them.

"Well well, the stalkers return from the hunt. So, what did we find this time?" Asked a man with a funny hat on. The hat had magnifying glasses of different focuses and different colored lenses as well as a flashlight.

"We've got a few toys, some gas, a computer monitor that looks fried, a couple light bulbs that might still work, some schematics that…well they look like blueprints to a building they hadn't got the chance to build, and then we also have some books we think are still good, and a world map that might be able to be restored." Ryder presented it all but earned a surprised smile from the man.

"Well, it looks like you just might have enough to make it all the way to the Bolshoi and back, ah?" Asked the man with a laugh. He looked at the item and nodded, "Okay, I'll see what I can do with some of this, the computer monitor is defiantly fried. No saving it. Here, each of you take your share." He presented the bullets evenly then got back to work. "That's all for today you guys. See you next week."

"Yeah, see you next week," Rocky saluted. "So, boss, what's next? Going home?"

Ryder looked at the cheerful member of his team of three and returned his gaze back on the lift that would take them to the tunnels to Polis. "Yes, I'm tired. We've been on the surface for longer than we usually have. I want to rest now."

Everest agreed whole heartedly. "Indeed. That spot where that demon dropped me still hurts. I need rest."

Rocky chuckled and walked backwards into the lift. "Oh, right. I remember. I hope you've got some ice for that. I'm just speculating, but if you were wearing some armor, you probably wouldn't have been so easy to pick up and even when you dropped, it probably wouldn't have hurt so much."

Everest glared at her partner as he laughed. Rocky was a real comedian sometimes, but only at the worst of times were his jokes any good. Other times, like now, the only humor he could harvest was from those around him. "Possibly. Or maybe I would have been picked up twice with all that bulk I'd be wearing. It's your fault the demon even found us! If it weren't for you and your "protective armor" I wouldn't have had to attract its attention and get picked up in the first place!"

"That's enough, both of you," Ryder stopped. "Rocky, enough of your jokes. And Everest, don't raise your voice in here, it's too loud. If you two really want to be stalkers you would learn the meaning of silence better. Don't forget, you're still trainees. And under my protection, you two will be the finest stalkers in the Polis Rangers. So from here on, you don't speak unless spoken to while we're on the job or absolutely necessary."

"Yes sir," They both affirmed. The two of them were fresh from Ranger training and were nearly at the end of training to be Stalkers. They only needed to go on the surface with Ryder a few more times and that would be it. But the amount of time they needed to accomplish that was still far off to be called close.

"Good," Ryder nodded. The lift stopped and the three walked the tunnel until they reached the guard post to Polis.

"Halt! Who goes there!" Shouted a guard. As soon as the spot light hit them the guards eased and put their rifles down. "Oh, it's you, Captain! Go on through!"

Ryder nodded a thanks and his two trainees followed him in. As they walked the grounds of Polis, Ryder released them, and they went their separate ways. Knowing them, Everest was probably going to the infirmary, Ryder had hoped at least, and Rocky was going to get a drink. As for Ryder, he was going to report to Colonel Miller and then return home. His duties would be finished after that. Ryder walked onward to meet the colonel, the rest that would follow after motivating him. Once he reached the office, he saluted and reported to the major in front of him who then let him past.

Ryder walked into Miller's office and saluted, "Captain Ryder requesting permission to report."

Colonel Miller looked up from his desk and saluted back, "Report, Ranger."

Ryder dropped his salute and continued, "Todays run went roughly well. We brought a few things back, but we had a demon encounter. One of the trainees had been injured, but she can still walk, and she was able to continue the mission. She is reporting to the infirmary now." Ryder didn't know if that was true, but it was what he would say to keep the colonel comforted so he didn't have to do extra work. He was too tired for that.

"Good, is that all?" Miller asked.

"Yes sir," Ryder replied.

"Then dismissed. Have a good night, soldier." Miller saluted and returned to his work on his desk.

"Thank you, Colonel," Ryder again saluted then stepped out of the room.

He sighed as he continued out and wished the major at the desk a good night as he saluted him. Ryder now made his way past the many tents to his own. Once he had reached the door to the tent, he took a deep breath. When he opened it, there waiting for him was a woman with long blond hair in front of a gas stove. Lighting the room were two oil lamps. The tent was small, with only one bed; that they shared; two chairs, a table, the two lamps, and the gas stove that the woman stood in front of. Of course, that also stood on a table so it could be said there was two tables, but the table was small and went as tall as the thighs.

"Katya, I'm home," He smiled.

Katya, sometimes referred to as Katie, smiled at her husband and embraced him at the door. "Ryder! Welcome, home, my love. Was your trip successful?"

Ryder sighed as he started stripping his gear off and putting it in a box. "Not as much as I'd hoped." Katie helped him with his gear and brought him a change of clothes. She continued to cook as he changed and went on. "I nearly lost a trainee to a demon today. She blames the other for attracting its attention but… in a way, she could have completely avoided it if she had merely shot it rather than shouted. She's good; I've seen her shoot. But she needs to use more common sense especially since she doesn't wear as much hardware. She'll be alright, but I don't know if I'll be able to save her a second time."

Katie smiled and rubbed his bearded face. She kissed him then assured him, "You will, I know you will. You're a great shot, Ryder. In my option the best in the Ranger Order."

"No, not the best." Ryder shook, "But I suppose I have a few good shots left in me." He kissed her cheek then traced his lips down her neck. She hummed, satisfied by the special attention then both of them pulled away. Ryder finished changed while Katie finished the food and divided it into two portions. It was mushroom and pork again. this time the pork was crispy. It was different, and Ryder enjoyed that. The monotony of torn or chopped pork was getting old. "This is good. How did you make it?"

"I used dried mushroom and cooking oil. The bottled stuff they said wasn't radiated enough to be harmful. I thought it would be alright. It was my mother's recipe. I had the idea of drying up the mushrooms and seeing if they could replace bread crumbs."

Bread crumbs? The sound of the word made Ryder salivate. Although the mushrooms were delicious, Ryder couldn't help but long for just a small crust of bread. Even if it was, as she said, a crumb, he'd take it. The wonderful taste of bread. There were so many other flavors too. Ice cream, steak, chocolate…chocolate… he almost forgot that it existed. Well, it _had_ existed anyway. He had to think about something else. So, he changed the subject. "How is your job as a brahmin? Are things going well?"

Katie stroked the side of her head, where a tattoo of a book was barely visible on her temple. She, though many had told her to cut it, grew out her hair in hopes of being able to live life differently and not take the responsibilities of a choice she made when she was eighteen. She so wanted to change that decision. So wanted to be…something else. Just not a brahmin. Not those "specialists of knowledge." Their old name was now the name of a monster, a monster they all feared greatly. And that was a fear she had come to not care about. She was tired of being a part of a community that feared something that could no longer touch them, that didn't care to try reaching them. She cared about passion, and her passion was animals and their care. Ever since she was a little girl. But there was no need for a veterinarian, unfortunately. Though, Polis did find a place in their archive of the old world, to preserve such knowledge, practicing it was…almost useless. If a pet was sick it was either too mutated enough to not recognize its anatomy, or too sick to be cared for. They would just take it out of the station in the tunnels and shoot it. It was "the merciful thing" to do. Those ideals made her blood boil.

"I see; forget I asked," Ryder looked down at his food and continued eating. He drank some of his water only to realize it was tea. Yet another pleasant surprise tonight. At least he wasn't thinking about bread. Well, wasn't.

The table was silent. Ryder hated it. She was thinking about how much she hated her job, and he was stuck thinking about bread. He wanted both of them to stop but there was nothing to talk about, nothing to distract them. His adventures were either too boring or he lacked the ability to tell the tale effectively. She had nothing going on except another reason for her to hate her job. Life in Polis, though better than everyone else's in the metro, was quite boring. Unlike other stations that had exciting tales and sudden attacks to at least get the blood pumping and pass a few minutes, Polis only had an attack maybe once in a month or just a stalker comes back not looking entirely human anymore thanks to a rather vicious makeover. Same could probably be said about patrols going out and coming back in a hurry. Ryder had so wished that he had a story to tell his beloved, but he had nothing. Nothing exciting or blood pumping. Nothing exhilarating or thrilling. Just a bunch of walking, watching, and hoping that you wouldn't become lunch. It would work for a child, but for a woman? No, she wanted some daring detail.

And so, the table remained quiet. not a word more was said, and neither of them were happy. They continued to sit in silence, taking bites of their food and drinks of their tea until it was finished, and Katie would have to take the dishes. Ryder took his chair and then picked up a guitar next to the chests of the gear he had just put away. If nothing could be said, perhaps notes could be played. Ryder began to strum softly at the strings and Katie merely listened to the soothing notes of the guitar. After a hard day's work, they would greet each other, have dinner, she would wash the dishes, he would play the guitar, she'd sit and listen a while, and then they would go to bed. It had been this way for years now. But even though it was so monotonous, so droll to other humans, it was a life they were content with. Katie didn't mind watching her husband play the guitar. There was a comfort in the monotony of it. Even if the same song had been played for a week, she listened to it. once in a while she would look for lyrics in her head so maybe she could sing along, maybe find a book of hymnals or other song books that could give her the words. But she never went though with them. She didn't want to sing either. She just wanted to hear him. She just wanted to watch as his callous fingers plucked away at the awkwardly tuned strings.

It was peaceful. Boring, yes, but peaceful. It was the only peace the two of them would get in their time alone. Sure, they could share peace in bed. In pleasure and other things, but just the quiet, with nothing but the guitar and the quiet whispers of Polis station… They were content with their life. Today's song was different, Katie had noticed. Instead of the steady cords of the first song she had constantly heard, she was listening to a slow solemn toon. He had an actual melody as well as some chords thrown in. She liked it. The mixture was different. Just like the pork tonight. Perhaps to reward her for her mixed recipe, he decided to play a mixed song. Some of the string played the melody of a Russian lullaby she could not quite remember the name of and the chords that he stroked once in a while had taken the place of the piano that was supposed to accompany the vocalist.

Perhaps tonight was supposed to be different. Even if, in all manner of speaking, it was the same. Who was to say, routine couldn't change? Even if the colors on a tapestry had changed, was it not the same pattern? In turn one could ask, was it not different? A new tapestry? Katie began to sing. She knew the words, she just forgot the name was all. So, she sang. Her voice was beautiful. It encouraged Ryder to go on. So he played a little more loudly and she sang a little more confidently. He played with more passion and soon she matched that passion. She pretended she was singing to her baby after it had a nightmare. Maybe it dreamed of a Dark One stealing it from them in the night, maybe it dreamed of the Nosalis as they raided their home and ate it while they could do nothing. Because they would already have been eaten.

Ryder played on. Pretending he was preforming for the great Bolshoi. He imagined the crowed smile and close their eyes as Katie's beautiful voice drew sleep to them and his playing rested their souls. He saw in his mind as the crowed swayed to the beat each enunciation signaling to them, they had reached the end of one side, so they swayed the other way until he reached another. They would sway and sway until they rested their heads upon each other or on the lap of their lover, and so they would sleep. Because of his powerful playing, because of her beautiful voice, they would sleep…and for a moment…they would believe they were safe.

But now, it had to come to an end. As Katie finished the last verse, Ryder began to descend down the musical hill until they both reached the bottom…then it was the music's turn to sleep. When they finished, Katie stood up and hugged Ryder quietly. He rested his head upon her shoulder, and they waited there for some time.

Soon though, Katie would take the guitar and put it back in its corner with rest of Ryder's gear and lead him to their bed. Tonight, would continue to be different. Unlike every other night, they had shredded or chopped pork with mushroom and water. A series of cords for music while she washed the dishes, and also, she would sit quietly and watch as he played his guitar and not say nor sing a word. But tonight, she served pork that was crispy and mushrooms that were chopped and cooked with the pork. Tea had replaced the water, and Ryder's song was a lullaby she could sing to rather than a pattern of cords she would silently listen to. A tapestry, she thought, one that was different, though the patterns remained the same. And to finish it, to add the final color, tonight they would enjoy each other's company. Just a little while longer. Just while they were alone, it was quiet, and no one would interrupt their time together. No offspring to cry and drive one of them away from the other, no officer to tell them that there was an attack and he was needed; not even an elder brahmin to scold her on her work. Just two souls, bound by marriage, by love; by the power invested in the one who married them. They would enjoy one another's company like they did before the bombs, so long ago and so young.

The next morning, Ryder had again headed out with his two partners. The sun had not come up yet. He was providing support from the distance again. Meanwhile, Everest and Rocky were investigating another building.

"You think we'll find anything good this time?" Rocky asked. "Maybe we'll get some gas, an intact painting, evidence of life?"

Everest glared at her partner. "Or maybe we'll find something that will shut you up. You should learn the value of silence, Rocky. It will save you one day."

Rocky chuckled. "Yeah, and that'll be the day I learned it."

Everest froze and glared at him as he entered a kitchen. She cursed him under her breath then followed him in. Rocky whistled as he started digging through the cabinets and made a nice sharp note when he dug out a big plate "Ah, looky here. I found a saucer."

"It's called fine china you idiot," She sighed, "Look at the design. Saucers are flatter and less for show and more for tell."

Rocky chuckled again and put it in his back, "Sure sure, it's still intact and worth a few bullets. What else have we got here…aha! Now we're ready for guests!"

Everest examined what he had. It was yet another piece of fine china, but its design was for more ornate and well preserved. "Hmph, congratulations, this calls for celebration."

"Well, I got the dishes for it." He looked around and then pulled some rags off of a skeleton. "Sorry, pal, I need your jacket."

"No respect for the dead, Rocky?" Everest smirked.

"It comes with not respecting silence. You'll understand when your older." He finished wrapping the china and putting it with the rest of his things.

"We're the same age, Rocky." Everest rolled her eyes and exited the apartment kitchen then went into a bedroom. She dug around and came to the conclusion it was a child's room.

"Maybe so, but not up here you're not." She could hear Rocky, but she could only guess he was pointing at his head. It was the only logical assumption.

"He says that but his brain is basically fried by the radiation. It's probably smaller." She dug through the cabinets then smiled. She pulled out a little blond-haired doll with buttons for eyes, a plaid and overall dress, and black shoes. She chuckled as she examined it. It was a bit singed and burnt but it was still recognizable and probably not damaged enough to cause nightmares for children. "Heh, I used to have one of these as a girl."

"One of those?" Rocky interrupted as he walked in and clumsily dug around the bookshelves. "Shit, it looks like Goldie Locks got stuck in a furnace."

Everest glared then put it in her bag. "It's intact enough for a little girl to enjoy. I gave mine away when I was sixteen. A few girls in Polis wanted to have a doll so badly so I gave them mine. I had three."

"That so? You had more than just a Goldie Locks?" Rocky asked as he tossed a book behind him nearly hitting her.

She glared at him but decided to let it go. "Yes, I had this one, a teddy bear, and a cowboy. I made a little world of my own where the cowboy was the hero and he had a friendly bear instead of a horse. They would go on all sorts of adventures and save little Anna from the evil Nazis or Red Line or whatever people I heard the latest bad news from. I always dreamed about a cowboy riding a bear and saving me from the dangers of the metro. He came down and took me and my mother away, gave us suites and masks then carried us away from Moscow into a distant civilization where there was no radiation, no Dark Ones, Nosalis, Watchmen; Demons… I admit I much now still dream how there's someone out there willing to help us and carry us away." Rocky snickered as he stopped to examine a book that looked a bit intact. Everest glared daggers at him. "It's a fantasy, I get it. but its also a dream…and it's a tiny bit of my spirit believing there's still hope for the surface."

Rocky smiled putting the book in his bag, "Well, that's something I can agree with. Silly as it sounds, I think it's a nice dream, but maybe not a cowboy. I'd rather be saved by a girl in a cat suite! Like those old Russian theater action flicks! Ha ha! Ow! What was that for?"

"Quite wining, your wearing a helmet," Everest sighed. She left the room for another. Rocky followed shortly after and they continued checking the rooms. When they left, they heard a loud howl. "Whoa, get down!"

They kneeled then Rocky reached for his flashlight. He made a signal towards Ryder's position then flicked it off. As they waited out what sounded like a rumble of thunder passing by. Rocky peaked over their cover and exhaled. "Shit, that's a huge heard. It's like their migrating south for the winter. But its already winter." He chuckled a bit when Everest, again, hit him, this time with the butt of her Hellsing. "Oof, it was only a joke."

The rumbling quieted Everest flashed him a warning look, "Listen, just because they are in a heard and move in fast speeds, doesn't mean they can't hear you. One may just catch wind of your laughing while its resting."

"Alright, jeez, as you wish. You know, you're not a stalker yet so you really need to stop pretending you know everything."

"I didn't assume that, idiot, another stalker told me that." She left with that then signaled to Ryder. Ryder's rifle laser pointed to another building and she replied with an affirmation. "Alright one more, let's see if you can handle this one quietly."

"Oh, come on, that's what you're here for." Rocky chuckled. He pat her shoulder and she recoiled. "Op, sorry, forgot you got dropped by a demon yesterday." He grinned then went inside the next building. She glared at him for what seemed like the hundredth time.

They checked the first floor only finding a few more dishes and toys. Everest had decided to make one more detailed look over a room she had a strange feeling for and had become extremely proud of herself when she found a twelfth-grade history book that covered most of Russian history at first glance. They payed really well for item like this. Again, they stepped out and signaled at Ryder and they met him at the base of the building.

"So, what do we have this time?" Ryder asked.

"A few more toys and some dishes. I got a book but its nowhere near as great as Everest's find," Rocky replied.

Everest proudly pulled out the textbook and handed it to Ryder. "Look at this. There're a few parents that would love to get a hold of this for their children. It'll make a good price, right?"

Ryder smiled. "That it will. Not everyday that we get a book of history. Alright, let's get back down and call it a day. Tomorrow is another evening shift, remember. So, you can sleep in, but don't forget roll call."

"Roger that," Rocky smiled, "I don't know which I like more, evening or morning. I love sleeping in but, you know, there's something refreshing about waking up in the morning for duty and then having the rest of the day for yourself."

"You may think like that, but I will always like evening," Everest grinned, "I prefer to be under the cloak of the dark."

"Of course you do," Rocky muttered.

"What was that?" Everest asked.

Rocky turned and replied, "I said, 'Good for you.'"

Everest rolled her eyes and let the moment go. They returned to their base and traded their finds in for some bullets. After that, it was time to head home. As soon as they reached Polis, Ryder complimented them then left.

"Well, want to get a drink this time?" Rocky asked.

"That's the last thing I would do with you, Rocky, much less go on the surface with you." She crossed her arms.

"Alright, it was just an offer. I suppose I'll go alone again. Ah, well, you have a good rest of your day."

Everest gave him a curt nod then said, "Sure, and don't get yourself too drunk. You may not have to wake early but you need to be ready for the evening. But knowing you you'll probably do it."

Rocky scoffed and shook his head, "Yeah right."

Everest stopped again and turned, "What was that?"

Rocky smiled again then replied, "I said, 'Goodnight.'"

She sighed and rolled her eye for the last time then parted with him for peace and quiet. He took a deep breath and stretched then headed off to the bar. The Vodka was calling his name.


	3. Chapter 3: The Lone Wolf

Zuma looked out at beyond the horizon of the ruined city of Moscow. He gave off a sigh and examined the sky. It was getting brighter, a sign that told him he needed to return to the metro. Zuma shouldered his sub machine gun and began to retrace his steps. He reached the rusty escalators and walked down carefully. One of the steps gave way on him. He caught himself on some railings nearly dropping the bag of treasures he had found on the surface. Zuma was a stalker. Not the kind that worked with the Rangers in Polis, but the kind that braves going to the surface alone and lucking out returning with some goods. In this case, he found very little that was of any good to him. Some tin soldiers that were relatively well kept, a book that had managed to survive the missiles that read "The Three Musketeers," and a couple of stuffed animals. Toys were scarce, so this would be a worthwhile haul.

"Shit!" Zuma cursed quietly as to not attract any attention to himself. He caught himself in time then took a deep breath. "Damn this escalator, twenty years without use and it decides in no longer needs to serve its masters." He cautiously continued. "There we go, be good little steps and hold papa up." He reached the bottom and sighed a sigh of relief. After that he banged on the door of the metro a few times. "Hey! Open up! I'm back from the surface!" There was no response, but Zuma waited. Eventually he got tired of it and shouted again. "Hey! Are you awake in there? Aleksey, I swear, if you fell asleep while on watch again I will kill you when I get on the other side!"

The doors began to open. "Hey, why so violent? It was only one time." Zuma turned and faced the speaker. Aleksey was a young nineteen-year-old who had just gotten a job as a guardsman. So far, he was horrible, and Zuma worried for the station when their lives truly depended on it. The boy was barely where he needed to be, had often overslept at times, and was always caught with a girl when he should have been standing watch. Disciplinary action was being utilized but they just couldn't stop him. There weren't enough people to protect the station and every man counted. Even if they were practically a dead man when given a rifle. Of course, he wasn't alone on watch, but people were too busy doing there own thing to notice when he slacked off.

"Aleksey, I knew it was you," Zuma sighed. Zuma was only a year older than him, but he spoke as if he were much older. Mostly to nock some sense into Aleksey but without any nocking. "What did I tell you about keeping your attention on the door?"

"You think I wasn't? Well guess what! I was, I just…"

"That's enough, both of you," An older man stated. He was approaching the gate. "Close the gate now. He's in!"

The man who spoke, Alyosha Pavlovich, was also a stalker, but unlike Zuma, who unwisely traveled alone but not very far, he had taken a team of five with him and would always come back with greater more worth while hauls. He was also forty more years experienced than Zuma and something of a father figure. Despite Zuma's choice of travelling on the surface, he was most proud of him than any other stalker he'd taken under his wing. Zuma may never had achieved finding a breakthrough discovery or an amazing grab, but he always collected the little things for children and thus gave them a life to live. Sure, some untouched food would feed them, some firewood would provide warmth, some medicine would treat them, but what would life be for them if they didn't have their games and toys? What was life worth if it was not being lived?

The gate behind Zuma closed and he took off his gas mask. Zuma greeted Alyosha Pavlovich warmly and exchanged a quick welcome home. "Now, what is this argument about?"

Aleksey was about to explain, but Zuma beat him to it. "I keep telling him to keep an eye on the door, but I always find myself nocking twice when he's on guard. I don't know whether he fell asleep or just outright neglects to open the door the first time, but if my life depends on it I'm not going to remember the nocking pattern and he's going to be the idiot who gets me chewed up because he's asleep."

Aleksey was quick to rebuttal. "Fuck you! I wasn't asleep I was merely away. I just needed to use the latrine for a bit, and I came back when he was threatening me on the other side!"

"Alright, I get it, shut up now," Said Alyosha Pavlovich, "Zuma, you need to have a bit more patience with Aleksey. He's learning and had enough sense nocking as it is."

Zuma would argue, but he wouldn't dare say a word against the great Alyosha Pavlovich. That was stupidity and folly all in one package. He, being wiser for one, always had the stronger points and, two, had so much charisma you would probably forget your argument out of intimidation. So it was best not to start the argument.

"And you, Aleksey! A stalker should only have to knock once when at the door. You know the knock. And if you have to use the latrine again, make sure someone knows about it and you don't leave the post unguarded. Everyone else is too busy with their work to always notice and cover for you. What if he was being chased by watchman, eh? You would have left him for dead and we'd have one less good stalker in our ranks."

Aleksey sighed but mumbled low enough to be nearly unheard, but he was still too audible for the great Alyosha Pavlovich. "He's basically asking for it for going alone anyway."

"Don't think I didn't hear that!" Alyosha Pavlovich slapped his head hard enough that he had to rub the spot to sooth the pain. "Now, take a seat and continue watching the gate until you are relieved. If you don't open the gate when we return, then there's more than that slap I gave you coming for you. Alright, we're moving out, let's go! And Zuma, get some rest. You've done a good job today."

"What? He gets a break and I get to stand duty longer? That's bullshit!" Aleksey exclaimed as Zuma began his walk into the station, passing the booths.

"Yeah and you know what else is bullshit?" Alyosha Pavlovich glared with such a look that Aleksey could swear he was stabbed by an unspeakably large knife. "Getting stuck out there! That's what. So don't let it happen again. You give us bullshit, we'll give it right back!"

Zuma didn't hear the rest. He wasn't interested to hear Aleksey get another earful. However, he wished that the idiot would just up and fix himself after the first couple of scoldings. But no, he persisted to be a terrible watchman. Zuma reached the station and started looking for the little toy store. It was his friend's idea. Danila Pavlovich was his name. Danila was three years older than Zuma. For as long as Zuma could remember, he had spent much of his life following Danila. For those long years, Zuma believed that Danila was the bravest man in the world. But now they had grown, and Danila was the one believing Zuma was the bravest of them all. Danila had confessed openly that he was afraid of the surface and he just couldn't do it. But when Zuma had brought his first round of toys Danila had gotten the idea of opening a toy store. He was a better and smarter merchant anyway than he was a fighter. Danila first helped Zuma get a good price on all of the toys then split the shares evenly and had bought half of the next share of toys. They sold them separately keeping each share. Then Zuma brought another group of toys and Danila bought them all then went on to selling the rest for a different price that allowed him to earn a living while still being able to pay for Zuma's second coming batch.

Some children were frequent visitors, looking to expand their collection of stuffed animals for their fake animal fights, or toy soldiers for their fake battalions. Zuma's greatest discovery was when he found the tin soldiers. Since then, even the adults had taken to buying them for collecting purposes. There was one adult that had convinced Zuma to come to him with the tin soldiers so that he could pay him a better price then his friend. They didn't mind, of course, but the children were quite jealous of the adult's special attention and wanted to make the same offer, only to be rejected. Unlike the adult, they could not provide the bullets to pay for the little soldiers. Today, Zuma had been able to get fully assembled, though faded, tin soldiers that he was sure the man would love to have. Zuma had become fond of making the man happy. The look of his face when he got a little tin soldier to add to his collection was worth all the trouble. Of course, the smile of a child getting their new stuffed animal with their allowance was just as nice, but this man…there was something that Zuma felt he just needed to make sure he at least found one tin soldier so that man could smile and thank him then hand over the bullets.

Once in a while, Zuma had taken to considering just giving the man the soldiers and being done with it, but there were too many children around and they would stir trouble. Zuma and Danila had yet to ask why he actually wanted them. They had only assumed that he wanted them because he liked collecting them and it gave him a purpose, but with how he smiled at them, how he was so excited to see at least one, and how sparring he was with his bullets when Zuma had brought a large collection…there had to be something more. Today, Zuma would ask. It was a part of the day that Zuma was looking forward to.

"Zuma! Hello my friend!" Danila yelled form across the way as soon as he saw his friend. Danila's little shop was only compiled as a stand with a brief selection of toys. A toy wood train and its caboose were at the far right, a collection of stuffed animals was beside it, a few puzzles were next to them, and the list went on. He had more behind the stand, but he only brought it out if he was asked. Mostly to avoid stealing. "What do you have today? Come on, don't be shy, show me."

"Alright alright," Zuma smiled as he took off his ruck sack. The children swarmed him. they knew him all too well. Zuma pulled out the collection of stuffed animals and gave them to Danila. "I have a… deer I think."

"No, it's a moose. Look at the antlers, Zuma." Danila laughed.

"Oh, right, a moose," Zuma chuckled.

"What's a moose?" Asked a child.

Danila leaned down to his level and replied, "A moose, my dear little friend, is a big four-legged animal with bi-i-ig antlers like this, except much taller than a man."

"Antlers? Are they poisonous? Do they kill people?" Asked another.

"No, but they used them to defend themselves," Danila laughed. "What else, Zuma, quickly before they ask more questions."

Zuma looked down at his bag. "Oh, sure. I have a lion."

"A lion?" Asked another child.

"Ask your mother, don't pester him with your questions, Sasha." Danila scolded. "What else?"

Zuma pulled out three more, "Here's a dog, make that two. And I found another teddy bear."

"Ah, well. The usual then?" Danila asked. "I see. And for our, 'special client?'" Danila asked.

Zuma winked and replied, "I have six this time."

Danila laughed and rubbed his shoulders. "Ah, Zuma, my friend, ah? You found six? He'll love that. Alright, now put them over here and I'll pay you. And he'll be around any moment so keep them ready."

Zuma put the teddy bear in the ammunition crate that Danila was using to store his extra toys for sale and in turn received fifty bullets. Zuma pocketed them and smiled at his friend. They exchanged a few words then the man approached.

"I see Zuma is here. Does that mean…" The man looked hopefully at him.

Zuma put on a bright smile. He loved this part. He took out the carefully wrapped tin soldiers then one by one placed them on the stand.

A child saw them and pointed at them in excitement. "Wow! What is that one? I want one of those!"

Zuma stopped the child from grabbing it and gave the man an apologetic smile. The man looked a bit scared. If anything were to happen to them Zuma knew he would be upset. "No, sorry, kid. Not these. They are special, adults only. You might hurt yourself."

"But that's no fair!" The boy shouted as he began to pout.

"Yeah, we want one! Why do the adult get the cool stuff?" Another asked.

"You'd best hurry, Sergei, they won't take no for an answer for too long," Danila urged.

Sergei, the man they had saved these soldiers for, quickly collected them and stuffed them in a wrapped jacket then smiled at Zuma. "How much today?"

Zuma, leaning against the stand and crossing his arms, thought about it then replied, "Two bullets each. There a bit too worn this time, so I can't charge much. wouldn't be that fair."

"Nonsense," Sergei detested, "These soldiers are just as good as any." He took one out for examining and there it was. That smile Zuma was waiting for. It was like one you would receive from your father before he told you how proud he was. Zuma, not having any parent anymore, would take any chance he got to feel that way. Sergei put the soldier down on the stand and continued to reach into his pocket. "I will give you eighteen. You have to have something for risking your life."

Zuma put up a hand, "Its fine, twelve is more than enough. I get plenty of bullets from Danila with the other toys I sell. I made fifty just today."

"Then let's make it sixty-eight, come, take them." Sergei insisted.

"Twelve was the final, Sergei, you don't have to pay so much." Zuma assured, "Let's just count out twelve now and leave it at that."

Sergei chuckled and offered his hand once more, "Now, Zuma. Every good self-respecting man knows that for a job like that expenses must be paid. So please, take them."

Zuma stared at the hand full of bullets and sighed. "How about this. I take twelve and you, being a self-respecting man, can help a friend by telling him what is important that he collects them. We are curious, Sergei. Why the tin soldiers? I could find rarer things like old money or bottle caps, something else that's not so delicate. Why tin soldiers?"

Sergei laughed, "Hah? Is that all? You ask as if it's a secret! I should just give you the eighteen and answer the question. That's no bargain. Everyone knows what they are for. My daughter, you see. She doesn't like playing with stuffed animals or little toy trains or cars or anything of the like. When I bought her these toy soldiers, she had adored them from the start. I knew she needed more. My daughter keeps to herself and these toy soldiers are very important to her. She likes playing with them and collecting them. She likes how they look and how they are all different. She even names them. There's one she particularly takes care of. She says it looks handsome and heroic. She even named it Zuma, after you. It's the one without a hat, hair swept to the side and carrying a saber. The one with the big coat, you know the one."

Zuma nodded, "Yes, I know the one." He grinned widely after he had realized which one he referred too. It was his proudest find. A fully painted, untouched, perfectly kept tin soldier that was dressed as a Cossack. He remembered it well.

"Yes, well, she takes extra care of it and is very protective of it. She won't even let me touch it. She also has one named after you, Danila. She says that he's Zuma's second in command. She thinks the both of you look exactly like the tin soldiers. You should meet her when you get the chance. I realize none of you have met her. My wife will cook you something to eat and we can have dinner together! Then you can see what she does with the tin soldiers. You can see how she takes care of them. You can see firsthand what joy you've brought her, a life she could never have asked for but got because of you."

Zuma smiled and looked at Danila. "Well, Danila? What do you think?"

Danila smiled back. "Free food and a chance to see a happy little girl? I live for that kind of thing. When can we visit, eh? Is the offer good for today? Tomorrow? A week from now?"

Sergei picked the soldier up after putting the bullets on the stand, "When you are free of course, my door is always open to the both of you."

They thanked him and Zuma turned to Danila. "I'm going to go take a break. I've been up there for hours. See you later."

"Okay," Danila waved, "Have a good rest."

Zuma left the little stand of toys and walked about the station until he reached his tent. He didn't have anything to eat now, but he was too tired to get anything. He just wanted to sleep. It was something he later regretted. His stomach later had woken him up being to sore to ignore later. He wanted to wait it out, knowing it would get better if he did, but the thought of food gave him enough energy to sit up and decide it was time to eat. Zuma didn't put on all of his gear. He didn't have to since he wasn't returning to the surface. He just had some jeans, a pair of boots, a shirt and a leather jacket. He stepped out of his tent and made his way to a nearby restaurant. It was small, only three tables, but it served meat and some questionable looking vegetables. But the vegetables were edible, and some had even taken to eating them over the meat. It was an old ideology that was thought to be healthier. It meant that the person would not partake of food from any animal or use any animal derived products. However, only a small percentage of the station, and maybe even the metro, every followed its rules to the letter. Some with this ideology had taken to wearing leather just because it was much warmer than the knitted jackets and sweaters.

Zuma was one who didn't care. He didn't want to be eaten, but did the watchman care? Those monsters on the surface? In Zuma's eyes, and even for the entire metro, you needed to eat what you could so you could live the very next day. If these vegetables-only-eaters wanted their vegetables only just based on an idea that an animal doesn't want to be eaten, then so be it. It saves some food for some people who were more than happy to consume it.

Zuma reached the restaurant and immediately gave the owner ten bullets. "Pork, some vegetables, and water. The usual."

He nodded and told his partner what he had ordered then gave Zuma a seat. Zuma sat down and pulled out a book he found a while ago. It wasn't the knew one he had just found on the surface, this one was different. He had this one for a while. Its title was faded off, so he didn't know what it was, but it had some interesting facts about maintaining a stable marriage in the world before the bombs. He had guessed that was what it was about. The book went into all kinds of detail. It had even gotten into peculiar detail about pleasing his soon-to-be partner. And not just before marriage. Zuma knew that life as a stalker was lonely and he would never successfully be married or anything like that, but he really liked to dream that he would one day find a girl. Maybe she would be a strange girl that was on the surface, maybe she wasn't old enough yet, so he hadn't noticed her, or maybe she was in another station, far far away. Zuma had read so many romance novels in his time that he could imagine plenty of scenarios about how he would meet his lover.

His thoughts were interrupted by two men who sat at his table. One had a flamethrower and the other had a shotgun. A hand made weapon that Zuma recognized to be called a shambler. He looked at them oddly but before he could ask any questions the one with the shotgun asked him, "Are you the one they call Zuma?"

Zuma thought quickly who he had wronged. Were they hunting for him, or did they want him for a job? Zuma, deciding he was silent long enough replied, "I am Zuma." The flamethrower chuckled and leaned on the table. His sly grin was terribly hidden by his hands as he folded them in front of his mouth. "What's so funny?" Zuma asked.

"Your name," The flamethrower answered, still chuckling at the brown-haired stalker. "It isn't Russian. So, what is it? And why, 'Zuma?'"

Zuma sat up, a bit offended but nonetheless understanding. His name had no Russian routes like Danila or maybe Aleksey, but it was unique. And he could very well guarantee he was the only "Zuma" in the entire metro. Of course, that _is_ why his mother named him. "My mother gave it to me. She wanted me to have a unique name that people remembered when they met me. Nowadays I don't think that's a good thing." And he was right. If your name fell with the wrong people, it was a hard one to forget.

"I see," The flamethrower calmed his laughter. "Well, Zuma, we have a job for you. You're a stalker, correct?"

Zuma continued to debate to himself whether to trust these men. "Yes."

The flamethrower questioned on. "And you've been to the surface a lot?"

"I have."

"And you always travel alone?"

Zuma looked at the man puzzledly, "But not far."

The man waved away the detail and his partner locked eyes with him. "That doesn't matter. What matters is you go up alone and always come back. We could use someone as tough as you."

Zuma's food had come. The restaurant owner looked them over then at Zuma. "Are these men bothering you?"

"No, we're just talking. They have a job offer. I'm just listening." Zuma gave two extra bullets to the man who gave him a nod then a warning glare at the men. "You have my attention."

The man with the shotgun talked now. "We have a place we want to reach. A…untouched and forgotten place."

The flamethrower grabbed his arm and pat it a few times. "Hush, now Yegorov, first we must introduce ourselves, he will be traveling with us and he will want to know our names." He gave Zuma a smile. "You must pardon my friend Yegorov, he is very excited, very… eager to reach this place. You have his name now, but mine is Fyodorovich. I am pleased to finally meet you." Zuma shook his hand then took a fork in his right hand. He looked at the man permissively. Fyodorovich motioned to his food. "Be my guest. We have already eaten."

Zuma began to eat and Yegorov went on. "As I was saying, we've been looking for someone that can help us get there. If our suspicions are correct, then this place will have old military hardware we may want to get our hands on. Maybe even some old relics of value."

"Relics of value?" Zuma asked with a full mouth. the curiosity fed his appetite. "You mean like, maps or fully intact items of the old world?"

"Or even better," Fyodorovich smiled. "You see, we are stalkers too, but the thing is, we don't want too big of a team, or we would have to split the goods even further. And the last thing we want is to have them go every man for themselves. We need a small team, one that works together and can divide the treasures less sparingly. Just so we can have more to ourselves."

Zuma swallowed and thought about it. "You mentioned military hardware, this is a military base?"

"More appropriately," Fyodorovich said softly, "A secret military bunker. Everyone who looks for it either comes back empty handed, unable to find it, or doesn't return. But we? We have found it."

Zuma squinted and turned his head. "How do you know? Those who went up probably thought the same before coming back in disappointment or perishing on the surface."

"Ah, you are not wrong," Fyodorovich chuckled. "Good boy, very smart. Yes, you will do fine. But you are not actually right. They said they knew, because of rumor and conjecture. That was their map. But Yegorov found a book. A book containing conspiracy theories. Not a published work mind you, a hand-written journal. He found it and the theories led us to it. We marked it on our map then went looking for someone like you. You see, the difference between us and those people, is that we have seen it with our own eyes. We have seen this bunker."

Yegorov interrupted, too impatient to wait any longer. "So, are you with us? Now that you are assured and now that you are promised your payment, do you accept? First pick of the treasure and a hand full of bullets awaits you should you get us out alive."

The deal was too good, and there had to be a catch. What were they hiding? "That's a good deal, but I want some insurance. How do I know I get to walk out if we are successful? What's down there? You must have seen something if you wanted help."

Fyodorovich and Yegorov looked at each other. Fyodorovich again smiled then laid back in his seat. "Zuma, my friend, my future partner, the only catch is that we don't know what's down there. Unlike others, who go into the first place they find on their own, we like to be on safety's side."

"But why only one man?" Zuma asked. "Why not two? It could be a watchman's nest for all we know!"

Fyodorovich sighed and leaned in, "I told you everything you need to know. Think, boy. Now do we have a deal? Or are you too scared?"

Zuma looked at his now empty plate and picked up his water. "Deal, first pick, and some bullets. I want five magazines."

Yegorov scratched his head. "That's a hard bargain, lad. Why so much?"

"Hazard pay and insurance. I will make sure you stay in once piece there and back. Also, some expenses. I want to get some supplies. The bullets will need to be payed all in advance for gear and ammo. I will be willing to share of course. You are technically paying for that as well." He drank his water and gave a smile like Fyodorovich.

Of course, he smiled back and then held out his hand, "Very well, it's a deal."

Zuma shook his hand. Fyodorovich ordered some moonshine then raised his glass, "To our health and our safety. I drink to success."

Both men raised their glasses with him and heartily yelled. "To success!"

Zuma brought the drink to his lips but stopped and pulled away. He felt a terrible sickness take his stomach. At first, he thought it was the food, but he realized it didn't feel serious. It was just a gut feeling. Something told him that this deal was a mistake. There was something in that place they told him of. Something very wrong, and they were going to straight into it. Something called that place home, and it wasn't going to be welcoming host.


	4. Chapter 4: The Caravan

The walk was getting exhausting. Rubble almost regretted wearing all the armor he did. Despite how wise it was to wear a good set of armor and have a mask handy in the tunnels of the metro he found it tiring that it would be so heavy, especially with his machine gun. His heavy RPK fitted with a large magazine and laser sight, though powerful, was too much for a shipment of fish from Venice to Kitai-Gorod. With him was his friend they called The Tracker. He was wearing less armor and carried a Kalash rather than an RPK. Following him was a man who went by the name Fyodor Tchaikovsky. He was a man in his early forties wearing a long heavy coat and an ushanka. He carried a double-barreled shotgun with him and smoked a weed cigarette almost every minute of their journey. Last with them was the byer of all this fish who went by the name of Piotr Malinovsky. Not much was known about him or Fyodor, but Rubble new his boss liked him and his friend and let them have whatever they want as long as the price was right, and it always was. Sometimes it was a weapon and some bullets for a shady group he had stocks with, other times it was a beautiful youth about the ages of maybe fourteen to twenty-five; depending on the night he and his friend felt like having; but it was mostly just the fish for his business.

Fyodor was Piotr's friend who traveled with him on these long journeys to buy fish every other day. The journey was long, but never dangerous, oddly enough. However, when it came to the journey back, there was only one way to get the fish back and that way proved more perilous than the way there. As such, Rubble and Tracker would accompany them for a bag of full magazines. Of course, they would have to give half to their boss to make sure he was payed properly. He was the man who had "caught" the fish and acted as the richest man in Venice. Though the gang that Venice had housed attempted to hustle him of his bullets many times, they never came out on top. He was always a powerful man with boys like Rubble to put them back in their place, and men like Tracker to make sure they stay there. Or if they wronged him, Tracker would make sure they regretted it. In return, they got even more bullets. It was enough to say that they were payed extremely well and got to live just as great.

Fyodor coughed in the cold and fixed his coat he had over him then spat on the ground of the metro. "This draft is making me catch my death. I may need to spend a night with you and you daughter, Piotr. Your tent is warmest."

Piotr smiled at his friend, though no one could see it in the dark. "Of course, my friend. You are welcome to stay. My daughter will cook and make you something to drink and we can make you a place to rest before you return home to your wife."

Rubble scoffed and shook his head. He had remembered how they drank moonshine and visited girls the day before. He had to watch them all day. And now they were going to pretend none of it happened in front of a child. Then again, "young adult" sounded more fitting since Piotr's daughter acted quite mature for her age. The fact they lived such dishonest lives in such times like these, in front of Fyodor's wife, in front of Piotr's daughter. Rubble found it sickening. The Tracker was no different. He, being quite close to Rubble, shared his distaste for the men they were constantly tasked to protect. If it were up to them, they would tell the girl what they're father really was. But they had kept silent. It came to realization, to both of them, that if they did, she would probably become rash and thus do something rash. Did she have someone to run to if she ran? Did she have friends to comfort her if she cried? Did she have a religion to pray to if she needed faith? These men certainly didn't, with Piotr being a proclaimed atheist and Fyodor believing in the theories of evolution even before the metro, they had certainly not encouraged prayer for the little girl…no, young woman who had believed in a lie about her father and uncle.

"Hey, Rubble," Tracker called. The men behind them were talking so loudly that Tracker had to call him twice. "Rubble!"

Rubble turned to his friend after shaking his head. "Eh, what? What is it, Tracker?"

"You hear that?" The Tracker pointed at the ceiling as if to say it was above them. Rubble paused to listen then shook his head. The Tracker scoffed at him. He put on a big grin ready to deliver the punchline of his joke. "Yes you do, it's called bullshit. Listen to that fuck. Going on about being a good father to that girl in Kitai-Gorod. You know the one."

Rubble nodded. He listened to the conversation just noticing as Piotr had gone on about how he had taken care of his daughter, taught her everything he knew, and how if he hadn't been such a great father, she wouldn't be alive right now. "But, of course, her mother, poor thing she was killed so long ago. Little Skye was only a single year old. A single year! I vowed to take care of her right before her dying breath and that is what I have done, no? Just look at her, not a single hair of her head falling off, not a hint of radiation has touched her, and she was born pure with no mutations. A doctor passing by had said she was probably the healthiest woman in the metro! The healthiest! Does that not prove that I have been a good father? Well if it doesn't, I don't know what does!"

"I wouldn't either," Tracker chuckled.

Rubble chuckled with him then leaned back over to Tracker. "And the sad thing is it doesn't prove a thing about him being a 'good father'. Look at what he does behind her back? Does a good father keep his child in the dark? Does a good father leave her behind so he may visit another woman she wouldn't even all mother? What does a good father actually do in your definition?"

Tracker nodded in agreement. "A good father the way I see it in Venice, let's his little girl fish with him. He teaches her more than what he knows of a trade, but what he knows in life. A good father, _I_ would think, ensures she stays with a good crowed and makes good friends. I bet she visits a boy every once in a while, to fill the gap of missing her father. Who knows, what she does alone. It doesn't change the fact I feel sorry for her."

"Halt! Who goes there!" Shouted a gruff voice. Many bright flashlights stopped the four carrying large bags of fish to the station.

"It's alright, Boris, it's just us," Laughed Piotr.

Boris lowered his weapon and signed for his boys to do the same. "Oh, it's you, Piotr. Bringing back fish from Venice again?"

Piotr nodded, "That I am. I'm back in sales again, so stop by when you can. Remember, just six bullets each."

Boris waved the offer away, "Ah, that's too expensive. Even for a large one. I can't afford that right now. Just go in! Good evening, Rubble, Tracker."

Rubble nodded a greeting right back along with Tracker. They locked eyes with another watch stander who was balling up in on his plank and blanket and drinking from a tin mug. Again, he shared and nod with him and even stopped to talk a bit. "Chase, it's been a while."

"I've been on the day shift the last you visited. The man you are with, he is Skye's father, no?" Chase asked quietly.

"That is correct," Tracker nodded. "He's the bastard we have to escort here every other day for a bag of bullets. Five magazines about."

Chase raised his brows in surprise. "He must be a wealthy man. So where does the 'bastard' part come in?"

Rubble scoffed and looked at the man who had been speaking with Boris for some time. "Where does it not unless it's in front of his daughter? He visits prostitutes, drinks moonshine, and eats a fortune of food all in one day every time he's in Venice. He spends too much time in the Brothel and not enough time home." Chase was shocked. When Rubble had faced him again he realized that it Piotr was a greater actor than he looked. The expression made Rubble think he might have killed his dog if he had one. "What, you didn't know?"

Chase looked down at the fire and didn't reply for some time. "No, I didn't. I thought He was a good man, like she told me he was. If she doesn't know, that would killer her when she does!"

"That's why we're not telling her. and you'd be wise not to as well." Tracker stood up. "Hey, Piotr, it's time to go. We want to eat and your holding us up."

"Alright, my friend, alright, just a moment. We'll eat at the place my daughter works, you will like it, I promise. It's only eighteen bullets."

Chase looked up at the man but said nothing. His stare had shown how distasteful he thought of the man now. Rubble leaned down and pat his back. "Be safe, my friend, there's little to ignore in these tunnels."

"Wait," Chase grabbed his arm then pulled something form his pocket. "Take this with you. You are bound to see her so give it to her when you do. Please."

Rubble took it and pat his back assuringly, "There's no need to beg. What is it?"

Chase relucted at first then quietly said, "It's…a love letter."

Rubble grinned and pat his back once more, "You are a good man, Chase, and I can think of no better man to protect her."

He pocketed the letter then followed behind the group of three. They reached the gate and a guard greeted them just as gruff as Boris had. "Stop, papers!" They presented their passports, the guards giving warning looks at the two who were heavily armored and protected. "No trouble, understand? We have enough problems as it is without your type coming in and shooting up the place."

"They are with me," Piotr interrupted abruptly, "I payed them to protect me."

"You mean you will pay us," Tracker glared.

Piotr and Fyodor laughed. "No need to be so suspicious, friends, you will get your pay. Have we not payed you before?"

The two were silent. They followed the men inside the station and dropped some of their gear off at the merchant's tent. They left their machine guns and armor behind but carried their Makarovs. As soon as they entered the restaurant Piotr's daughter welcomed him home warmly and took their orders quickly. They took their seats at two nearby tables. Tracker and Rubble took one, the two men took the other. While they began to talk amongst themselves, Skye had exchanged words with her father a little begging for details of their trip.

Rubble and Tracker quietly scoffed at the man who made up lies about his trip and even agreed to his lies when asked. They were still under his employ afterall. So they let him lie to her and went with it. Soon, Skye came to their table and gave them hugs as a greeting.

"Hello, Tracker," She hugged him tightly, and Tracker, smiling, hugged her back.

"Hello, Skye."

She hugged Rubble next who was waiting eagerly for his with just as big a smile. "Hello, Rubble."

"Good evening, Skye." He let go of her with a big grin then dug in his pockets for something. "I have something for you. A letter."

"A letter?" Skye asked, quite interested in this predicament. She had never received a letter before. She waited eagerly as Rubble dug into each pocket.

"Where is it?" He asked as he continually mined his pockets. He tried them over again then swore he felt a crumpled piece of paper in one of them. he dug deeper and laughed triumphantly, "Ah hah! Here it is."

Skye took it excitedly. "Thank you so much, Rubble. Who is from? Wait, don't tell me, I want to read for myself. Should I read aloud?"

"Ah, no," Rubble hurriedly said. "I mean, read it quietly, to yourself."

"A letter? To my daughter?" Asked Piotr in surprise. "Who form? Certainly not your boss, he would have given it to me." He got up to take it from her, but she pulled away, a bright shade of red painted on her face.

"I-it's no one, father. No one at all. I will just get your food and return with your moonshine, and…"

"It can wait, I want to see who is writing you, now show it to me," He said sounding a little less soft.

Skye hid it and then looked at Rubble who put a hand on Piotr's shoulder. "A good father does not corner his daughter. He uses his voice to speak to her, not his actions."

Piotr looked at him with a glare and asked, "What do you know of being a good father. You are not married, Rubble. You are too young to understand fatherhood. You have yet to have a daughter to care for. Now enough of this, show me that letter."

Rubble pulled him and said in a deep threatening voice, "I am only paid by you, because my boss must be paid. I do not work for you. Let the girl go, you don't want to mess with…another client's private affairs."

"Another client?" Asked Piotr. "What do you mean?"

Rubble sighed. "You don't think you're the only one he deals with my boss, do you? Besides, with how much you speak of your daughter, do you think she would be safe from lovers from afar who look for a woman to marry?"

He looked sickened by this and asked, "Who gave you this letter? I will speak to your boss of this, this is an outrage! My daughter is too young for the likes of him. Too young!"

"I didn't say it was an old man," Rubble said returning to his seat, Skye now long gone while her father was distracted. She came back, the letter having disappeared in thin air, and gave them each a plate of hot pork and mushrooms as well as a cold bottle of moonshine to each table.

"Please enjoy," She smiled. She gave her father a kiss on his cheek and it was as if he had forgotten the letter completely. She gave Rubble a thankful smile then walked off. "If there is anything, I can get for you let me know."

"Nothing now, thank you, Skye," Tracker said. He took a bite of the pork and mushrooms then smiled, "This is good."

Rubble did then same and nodded in agreement. "Yes, it is." He swallowed after chewing for some time. "It's better than Venice's cooked pork. Although I prefer the taste of the shrimps. That and a bit of beer."

It was Tracker's turn to nod. "No doubt, indeed. We both grew up in Venice, so it is only natural." Tracker took another bite then drank some of the moonshine. It was only a few more cartages to the bill, but worth it. after all, they still had yet to get payed and they were not the ones paying for the food.

Some time had passed, and Rubble gave a deep quiet belch. "I need to use the latrine. I'll be back." He stood to his feet and walked out of the tent.

He went to the nearest latrine and then returned only for Skye to wave him over. "Psst, Rubble, here!"

Rubble looked around then approached her. "Well, what did you think of the letter?"

Skye beamed and pulled out the piece of paper. "It was wonderful. It was very romantic. Thank you so much for bringing it to me."

Rubble smirked and nodded. "Of course. I didn't know Chase was such a good writer."

"Chase, I knew it was him, I knew it!" She whispered excitedly. "It had to be. When you said it was someone from Venice, I had my doubts but…in the end, I knew it had to be a ruse for my father. Thank you so much."

"It wasn't addressed?" Rubble asked.

She shook her head, "No, it wasn't."

Rubble watched as she read it over and over again. "Well, I would be ready to part with it soon. Your father is going to want to see it and he will be curious to who it is from."

Skye widened her eyes, "But I can't! He worked so hard for it… I can't just burn this and let it pass from memory. Words like these deserve a place better than that! I want to keep it, read it every night before I go to sleep, and imagine them as if he were speaking them to me. I can't do that if I do not have it."

"Skye, a letter is meant to be read then understood. Hardly to be kept." Rubble sighed, seeing her grip the letter harder.

"But I can't, I can hide it."

"And he will find it. If you are so certain that you wish to keep this relationship secret, you will want to get rid of any evidence you have of his connection with you."

Skye looked it over again, sadly this time. "But I just can't… it is too beautiful. It will hurt him to know I burned it then he will think I do not love him."

Rubble took the letter, "What could possibly be so enthralling in a letter?"

She squealed and tried to get it back, but his arms stopped her. "You can't, Rubble, you-you can't. They were meant only for me!"

Rubble looked up at her then looked the not over. "It's a poem. This is no letter."

She began to cry as he examined it front and back. "Did… you read it?"

"No, I looked at the formatting," Rubble replied, "I only needed to see the two sentences and gaps between them to know. Here take it."

She took it quickly and looked him over. "You swear, not a word?"

"Not even a 'letter'," he grinned.

She sighed in relief as she heard this. He took a deep breath seeing she had grown too attached to the paper. "Well, it's not addressed, so you can at least say that whoever it was very good with words and that you are interested in meeting him. Or just outright say you hate it. either way, your father won't know it's from him."

Skye again beamed at him and hugged him, "Thank you, Rubble, thank you."

Rubble completed the hug reluctantly and let her go, "Save those for him. Now, clean yourself up and get back to your shift. I want to finish my moonshine."

With that, Rubble had entered the tent. After some time, the station's clock was near done with its second rotation and the station started blowing its lights out. The men were staying in Piotr's tent. Skye was fortunate since her father had forgotten completely about the letter, thanks to the moonshine. Even though it was supposed to be quiet across the station, Piotr and Fyodor were quite loud. They continued to drink outside of the tent. Rubble and Tracker were preparing their equipment for the next day. Skye continued to read her letter repeatedly. Since it was lights out in the station, they didn't use the electric lights or their electric generator. Instead, they continued to use lamps. It was a bit hard to see in the dim light of the lamp, but Rubble and Tracker managed to see just enough to check their equipment. Meanwhile, they listened to the soft, low playing record outside of the tent that Piotr and Fyodor had brought out to listen too. Fortunately, their talking was not loud enough to interrupt the music too much.

Tracker carefully checked the divots of his armor to ensure they were able to resist a bit more punishment when he looked up at Rubble. "Psst, Rubble."

Rubble looked up. "What is it?"

Tracker looked at Skye to see if she was listening in. But she was too absorbed with the letter. "The letter, who was it from?"

Rubble looked at Skye's letter then put on a big grin. "Chasovnya."

Tracker looked at her then back at Rubble again. "Chase? The guy at the four hundredth meter?"

"That's the one," Rubble affirmed, "He wrote her a poem. You remember a little about what Piotr gossips to his friend, right? He hates a guy by the name of Petrovitch. Well guess what. That's his son."

Tracker waved the information away, "We both know this, Rubble, we were both there. I know who Chase is. You forget?"

Rubble put his hands up defensively "Alright alright, Sorry, I forget. I thought you wanted to make conversation, so I thought I'd tell you what you probably didn't hear."

Tracker returned his attention to his task, this time focusing on his weapons. "Well, all I wanted to know was about the letter."

Rubble shrugged and started checking his weapons. "Alright, whatever you like."

There was only five minutes that passed until Tracker looked back to ensure Skye wasn't listening when he leaned in asking, "So, what about Chase? Is it Romeo and Juliet Russian style, West Side Story or what?"

Rubble grinned and continued his story. "Well, in a manner of speaking. She's only a kid, right, and he's a bit older. About four years. Piotr despises the guy like he despises his father. But, the thing is, Skye fell in love with him the moment she laid eyes on him with his Kalash. Thought he was a ranger. He was seventeen when that happened. Piotr says he tried 'getting her to see reason' and make her realize he's just as terrible as his father. Well, naturally, I get curious myself and think, 'One day I should meet this guy, he sounds like my kind of guy.' So you know what happens then. You were with me."

Tracker nodded, "Yeah, we meet him while Piotr is off drinking with Fyodor, and you drag me off to meet this guy. I know the rest. But why the hell does he hate him so much. I zone out a lot and don't pay too much attention to his whining. Apparently, you do, though."

"Like I have a choice." Rubble chuckled a little. He leans in closer again checking to see if Skye was listening or watching. "He says that when they started settling in Kitai-Gorod they had a bit of a feud. They were friends once but then apparently Petrovitch killed his wife, or at least, caused it. He changed the story three times now. On version goes to Fyodor, another goes to Venice, and a third to his daughter! Then there's the forth version. While you were taking with Chase, I asked Petrovitch about it and unlike Piotr he has only one version. A little more believable too. What happened was actually a Nosalis attack a while back. Petrovich had one chance to save Piotr's wife and when his shot counted most me missed. Piotr says that he either ran in fear, stood there and watched, or shot his wife, but Petrovitch? He tells everyone he misses and keeps having nightmares about it."

"Huh, some way to thank a friend for trying. He's damaged his reputation in three different ways over one thing!" Tracker chuckled with amusement.

"That's not where it ends. You see, he took it a step further by telling his daughter that his son was just the same. Remember the whole controversy that happened when Kitai-Gorod was attacked by a dark one?"

"Yeah, Chase told me all about it," Tracker replied, "He was there."

"Exactly!" Rubble exclaimed realizing he was getting louder. He looked at Skye who was watching curiously. He waved and smiled pretending their conversation didn't exist. "Exactly, and he used that as leverage to blame him about the Dark One nearly breaking through! Don't think Skye believed a word of it though. She still likes him."

Tracker nodded, "Well if she is as excited about his letter as you said in the restaurant, yeah. Chase said that the Dark One nearly pushed through and got to the station. Said he got scared and ran back to the station like a puppy. Apparently, some Hansa military wouldn't let him though so he waisted his whole magazine trying to kill the beast. His gun jammed too so he took one from one of the Soldiers and got a lucky hit. No one knew it was him though, the thing just…dropped dead. Even Chase doesn't think it was actually him. he just said that getting a lucky shot was his theory. Nearly got a gut full of lead from the Hansa if they didn't respect his father. They didn't like that he ran."

Rubble scoffed and shook his head. It was no surprise they thought that way. "Yeah, well, Piotr says that he actually shot his guys in hopes that the Dark One would think that he was submitting and defecting. But back in those days he was at the one hundredth meter, not the fourth. He wasn't the last one at the one hundredth meter though. He was the last one in all of the posts! And his shot probably did land. Chase may look like an undertrained militiaman but he's a hell of a shot. No one gives him credit for that. Not even himself."

Tracker shrugged and finished his shotgun. He put the gun down then leaned in. "Maybe we ought to try and recruit him for the boss. He'd love to have a sniper in his arsenal, right? Besides, he's just as desperate as we were. Ten bullets a watch? You can only do so much with that shit."

Rubble agreed, "You said it. But that's worth a shot."

"What's worth a shot?" Skye asked nearly five feet away now.

Tracker jumped, drawing his Makarov, "Shit, Skye, you startled me. how did you get so close without me hearing you?"

"You were making so much noise with your guns you wouldn't," She replied. "Even with hearing as sharp as yours. What were you talking about just now? I heard Chase's name. Why are you talking about him?"

Tracker chuckled, holstering his Makarov and sitting back down. "She has hearing sharper than me when she listens for that name. We ought to call him Chasovnya rather than Chase so we can throw her off."

Rubble shook his head, "No good, she knows it now. We weren't talking about anything. We just mentioned him quickly. That's all."

Skye lifted a curious eyebrow. "But you said something was worth a shot. Are you trying to do something with Chase? You are his friends, aren't you?"

Tracker rolled his eyes as Rubble was speaking, trying most to cover up what they were talking about. "We were thinking about hiring him. The boss over in Venice likes people with a good eye. He'd pay Chase well of course."

"But he would live in Venice," Skye said gloomily, "Please, don't Rubble, please? I know it would be easy for him there, but he would never be able to visit."

"Shh, do you want your father to hear you?" Rubble said shaking her off of his arm. "Alright, we won't. He'd probably not accept anyway. He's not a gangster. Besides, he's living well enough here anyway."

Tracker shook his head, "His father's sick. I wouldn't say that."

Skye jumped on the point as if it were a new ace up her sleeve. "Even more reason for him to stay. His Father wouldn't be able to make the journey."

Rubble assured her with his hands, "Easy, I said we wouldn't already, jeez. Just drop it. We won't talk about it anymore. Sounds like your father is done laughing with Fyodor."

As they had become quiet, Piotr and Fyodor came laughing inside the tent. "Well, that was some good moonshine, Piotr. I'll probably have to stay two nights!" Fyodor howled drunkly. "I'm about as drunk as I can handle. I'm sure to get hung over!"

Piotr laughed and pat his back, "Of course, my friend, stay as long as you like! Skye, some extra bedding for this drunk fool! Here, I'll help."

"No, father your much too drunk," She said smiling as he wobbled.

"Nonsense! I can't make my daughter do such labor on her own. She's much to delicate!" He laughed, "Oh, come, give papa a kiss before you start. Come on come on." She kissed her father's head and he kissed her cheek as he laughed. "It is so good to be alive today, no? Fyodor, sit down, sit down, Fyodor, you'll fall!"

Fyodor tried sitting on Rubble, but he moved quickly, and Fyodor had sat on the seat then continued to laugh. "Look who is talking. You are leaning on your daughter, poor thing. You, boys, help her, she is crumbling under the weight of her father!"

Rubble and Tracker reluctantly started to carry Piotr then put him in Tracker's chair. "Thanks, boys. Skye, where is that bedding? Did we get rid of it? I thought we may have saved it."

"I didn't fetch it yet," Skye giggled, "One moment, papa."

Rubble helped her pull out the extra bedding. Piotr looked over and loudly proclaimed, "Ah there it is! See, I knew we had it. See, there, Fyodor, you can sleep there and uh…yes, just rest there and you can be hung over there too. My daughter may have to take care of us both. We may have drunk too much, friend."

"Yes, too much," Tracker sighed. "Skye, make sure they have plenty of water. It'll ease the headache for the next day."

She nodded and ran her hands through her hair, "They always do this, every other day! It's funny sometimes but the morning after is annoying. I have to work and sell the fish or we won't have any money!"

"I know, we're always here to see it," Tracker pat her back, "We'll help this time, but come tomorrow, we need to leave."

Skye sighed. "It's better than what you used to do. Help me set up the bedding then lay him down."

They stayed a little longer and assisted Skye with her routine chores of every return her father made with his friend. Once they had finished, they left the tent with their equipment and found a hotel that was nearly closed. They rented two beds for a couple bullets then rested for the night. The next morning the two had packed their things and put on their armor then left the station for Venice.


	5. Chapter 5: The Traitor

Two Reds were dragging Marshall by the shoulder as he coughed and laughed some provocations at them. They threw him and tore off his balaclava as they reached their officer.

"Oh, look who it is, the big bad officer himself, ah?" He coughed a few more time, "Tell me…uf uf…tell me, 'Comrade' Major Victor, how many…uf… men, women, and children do you think you will kill before you've killed the whole Metro, ah?" He began to cough some more then laugh bit. "Well, you fascist bastard? Oof!" Marshall coughed more as he felt a boot meet with his stomach.

"How dare you talk to the Comrade Major like that, you traitor!" An arm stopped the Red soldier.

"That's enough, comrades, let the traitor speak." Comrade Major Victor turned and faced Marshall with a smile. "Well? What else have you got to say before you are punished? Anything?"

"Yeah, fuck you! If the Red Line knew what you were doing, they'd shoot you on the spot! You've done nothing but act like a fucking fascist while here! You burn people alive just because they are in your way, you imprison innocent civilians just because they looked at you, and you kill children just because soldiers aren't working hard enough! That's not who we are! We're not murders!"

The officer nodded at a soldier who kicked Marshall in the face. The officer leaned in close and gave him a big grin. "You are right, Comrade Volkov, we weren't. But now, things are changing. And if you can't change with us it is because you are a spy. And there's only one thing I do with spies like you." Marshall glared at the officer with hatred then looked at the men who were guarding him as they took a knife and brought it to his shirt. the other one, on his left held him down. Two others came to help. As his upper clothing was removed, the officer crept behind him with his own knife and put it on a candle. "Keep him still, I don't want to mess it up. Try to hold as still as you can, Comrade Volkov, this may hurt worse otherwise and take much longer." The men struggle to hold him down, eventually they had all their weight on him and he was only able to wiggle. The officer kneeled onto the small of his back then brought the knife to his upper back and began his work. Marshall cried out in pain and screamed as loud as he could, hoping it would ease the pain in his back somehow, but it didn't. "Hold him, he almost ruined it!"

The officer kept carving then held out his hand with the knife. A fifth man took it and replaced it with another red-hot knife. The smell of burning flesh was filing the room like a poisonous fume but to the officer it was like a woman's perfume. Still he wasn't done, he held his hand out again and his knife was traded out. "Almost, done Comrade Volkov, just bear with me now." He scratched his chin and figured out his next approach to his art then continued.

Marshall kept screaming. He tried not to sob but the pain was so much he was busier praying that he'd faint, but he was too well conditioned to pain to do it. He wanted to be quiet and not give them the satisfaction but if he was quiet, he would start sobbing and then he'd be better off screaming. It was the most dignified thing to do now. Finally, he felt the weight begin to lift. The officer removed his knee and examined his work. "Ah, my best one yet, I think. It looks quite nice on you, Comrade Volkov. If you were a character of a book you would have quite the story to tell. Alas, you are not, and no one is coming to save you, my poor friend. A moment with him, please." The officer smiled.

The men hesitantly left then closed the door behind them. Marshall, bound by his hands and feet slowly got to his knees and shivered. He glared up hatefully at the officer once more. He grumbled then fell back down, trying so hard not to cry. The officer shook his head and clicked his tongue several times. "Aw, I know, it hurts. It burns so much, doesn't it? But that's a good sign, no? At least it means that you aren't losing blood, yes?" He poured himself a drink of preserved whisky and took a sip from his clean crystal glass. These items were taken form a stalker who had struck almost literal gold one day. The officer had him killed and the item brought to him. He was only a Major, but he knew how to play his cards right. He was just too clever. "Comrade Volkov, I understand how you feel about my tactics, I really do. But I need you to see things my way. The Red Line exhausts many resources and has many enemies that are within its borders. There are a lot of spies in our stations and even if you can't get a verbal confession you only need to look in their eyes and see the lie inside them to be able to tell. You may not see it, but I am not so easily fooled. As for the burnings," He took another drink and exhaled with satisfaction. "You are right. That is such a fascist thing to do. But, think, Comrade Volkov, for just a moment, think. Maybe it is time we fought fire with fire, yes? If they burn us, why not burn them?"

Marshall struggled to sit up somewhere where he didn't have to hold his weight up but also not lay on his back or chill his stomach. The pain was gnawing and the cold nipped. "Becoming a fascist will not defeat fascism, you bitch."

"Mm," Comrade Major Victor agreed while drinking from his glass, "That you are right. You are wise as you are dangerous, Comrade Volkov. But…you see, just because I burn people like a fascist doesn't mean I am a fascist." He smiled then finished his glass and leaned down facing Marshall. "I need you, Comrade Volkov. You are a waist of bullets and gas but a valuable use of manpower and skill. The Red Line needs you, do not throw away your place with us. You have been marked with…a most humiliating piece of art. A tattoo if I may. That's enough for you to pay for your insubordinate tone. Let's put this all behind us and call it even. You have paid your price, Comrade Volkov and now you have a choice. Death, or service. Either way, your service to the Red Line will be remembered for better or for worse."

Marshall wanted to choose service. He really did. He served the Red Line for so long now. And his tone was so soft, so welcoming, so forgiving that Marshall really did want to accept and apologize for everything he said. Afterall maybe he was right about all this. Marshall closed his eyes and the image of a woman and her children being burned in front of her husband played in his head. Then he remembered more. People getting shot on the spot, burned, cut open; butchered. No, this was not the Red Line he served. Marshall leaned in next to the officer's ear and whispered what would probably be his last words. "Fuck you."

The officer clicked his tongue and stood up. "That pains me, my friend. I am truly sorry. Do not worry, we will tell your family of your service and tell them how you died a hero. It will not be the same Red Line without you, Marshall."

"No," Marshall groaned, "It won't…and it certainly started a bit early."

The officer nodded and then barked at the door. He gave the soldiers orders then Marshall felt a boot hit his head. The next thing Marshall knew was that he was in a dim lit room laying down with his hands and feet still bound.

"Hey, he's waking. It's time." Said a soldier.

"Alright," Said the other, "Let's get this over with. Hey, Volkov, wake up. Come on hurry up, we haven't got all day!"

Marshall looked up at a soldier and tried to get his surroundings. The soldier took a clip board and pen then leaned over, "Well? Do you have any final requests before we execute you? It was Comrade Majors orders to do this quietly and make sure you had a final written will. You earned that much."

"Come on, out with it," the other said impatiently.

Marshall sighed then took a few seconds to think. "Let my sister have all my things. Don't let anyone touch them. And my allowance. Make sure she gets that. And my Kalash and my suite goes to her as well. She doesn't share my family's name, she was adopted but you will find her in the Theatre Station. Her name is Enya Borisov, but patrons call her… Sweetie."

The one with the clip board took note of it all then nodded at the other. He stepped outside the door, delivered the clip board, and returned. "Alright, let's get it done. Can't promise that everything will get to her, but we can promise attempts will be made. I'll position him then you take the shot. Do you want this done face forward or backward?"

"Forward," Marshall replied.

The man nodded then positioned him as such. Marshall stared at the man with the revolver making him uncomfortable. "Stop looking at me like that." Marshal ignored him and the executer shook his head. "Turn him around, I can't do this when he's staring at me like that."

"He just said he wanted to face you," The clip board said.

The executer argued again, "I can't take it. He always makes that look before…"

"Before what?" The clip board asked. "Just shoot the man already."

The executer sighed then pointed his revolver. He pulled the hammer back. Marshall closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The executer did the same then squeezed the trigger. Suddenly, Marshall's bounds came undone. He hopped up and struck the executer in the throat, quickly disarming him and pointing the gun at them, "No suddenly moved, on the ground on the ground, bitches." They put their hands up and didn't make a sound. Marshall instructed them to turn around then pistol whipped them both. Marshall took the minute he had to have breather then sprang to action. He gripped the charm around his neck and whispered, "I'm coming, Sweetie." Marshall quickly and carefully began to sneak out of the room.

He needed to get out of the station. The revolver would have to do; he didn't want to leave the station unarmed. He was already shirtless with half a uniform. He would have to change out of the cloths and see if he could patch up the marking on his back. He didn't know what it was yet, but he knew it was "humiliating." For all he knew, the officer grew a sense of humor and carved a penis and called him a dick. But then again, the knife had to lift itself too many times. When he thought about it, it actually felt like words. But he wasn't sure. Thinking about it too much was making it sting. Still, Marshall was able to ignore it long enough to reach the tunnels.

He looked back making sure that there was no followers and broke off into a run for what seemed like forever. He didn't know what tunnel he was in, but he knew that it was better than staying in the station. He only knew that he was in Kirovskaya. What direction was he facing? He was hoping that it wasn't any of the tunnels north or south. Those were dead ends without documents. The ones south was a dead-end, period. South east was his best bet. Then again, North didn't sound too bad. If he went north, he had a connection there that would save him trouble. Sucharevskaya station was a transit station and also therefore neutral. There, he could get help and a direct line to Theatre Station. Then again, he would have to present some documents there too. They would probably not let him out either. Not without a fight. But the trouble would actually be getting in. He had to assume that the whole Red Line knew who he was and either thought he was dead or would know he escaped. He had to play his cards right. If he was lucky, his connections could provide him with an answer. So, he continued down the tunnel and hoped his luck would hold. Marshall had to fight the cold as he continued down the hazardous tunnel. He managed to keep warm by hugging himself, but his bare upper body was being struck from all sides with the cold. His back didn't feel so cold, since it was so busy burning.

The dark of the tunnels made it hard to navigate where he was going. He only had five rounds in his revolver. Five rounds, one weapon, no flashlight, no coat or shirt, just a pair of camo pants and boots, and rotten luck. Well, the luck could be debated. He was a good soldier, but there was always something that turned him being a good soldier to misfortune. He always tripped or fell or missed a shot at the wrong time. A majority of the time those things wouldn't happen, but those key moments… always went wrong.

Finally, Marshall found a light at the distance. He let one foot lead the other until the light turned into a gate with people guarding it. He approached with a deep breath and told himself, "Here goes nothing."

"Halt," A guard stopped him, "What the hell. What are you doing without a shirt and coat? Why are you like that?" Asked a guard.

"Ah, Iit's a long story," Marshall replied, "Listen, I need you to find someone. His name is Fedeyka Andreev. Just find him and I will not be much trouble; I swear."

The guards looked him over then whispered to each other. One of them recognized that what was left of his uniform was a Red Line soldier's uniform. The debate came from whether he was a Red or if he was a thief or even an escapist. Marshall started to shiver and creep towards the nearest fire. Just seeing the fire was enough to make hm long for its warmth. When he could barely feel it lick his skin, he had tried to creep even closer. A guard caught him moving closer to the gates and yelled at him. "You, over there, don't think I don't see you!"

"He-hey," Marshall chuckled putting his hands up defensively, "It's alright. I was just hoping to share a place with you by the fire."

The guard sighed then nodded. Marshall sighed in relief then embraced the warmth of a hot fire. It wasn't enough to keep him from shivering, but it was enough to keep him from dying. He continued to warm himself and wait for their decision. Finally, one of them approached him. "Alright, wait here. Do you have any weapons?"

Marshall pulled his revolver and flipped it so the grip faced him. "Just this. Nothing else."

The man took it then nodded. "Good, wait here. He will be watching so, don't try anything stupid."

Marshall nodded and kept by the fire. He extended his hands and warmed them then rubbed them over his body. Once in a while the guard would look him over. Marshall tried to resist the temptation, knowing the guard would see but he couldn't help it. Every attempt to arms his back was met with a lot of pain. The guard looked at him oddly trying to figure out what was wrong. Finally, Marshall gave in and turned to warm his back. The heat was wonderful, but the wound burned a bit. The guard looked it over and appeared shocked when Marshall turned and faced him. He looked away as if to apologize for being so intrusive. But it was clear that whatever the officer carved on him, it was horrifying enough to make even the tough guardsman shiver and pity him. Maybe it was humiliating after all.

Finally, the guard returned with a man in a faded metro worker's uniform. He looked at Marshall and widened his eyes. "Marshall?"

"Fedeyka," Marshall smiled.

"Marshall, my friend. When they said a Red soldier had come to see me I had hoped it was you." He hugged him but Marshall grimaced and pushed him away. "What? What is wrong?"

"I'm sorry, Fedeyka, but I am not in the best shape." Marshall blew out a few puffs of air and gripped his heart from the sudden surge of pain his friend had caused.

"I'd say, you're here without a shirt. come in, you'll catch your death in this cold! Come on, come." The guards let him in and Fedeyka led him to his home. The metro station here was still basically a metro station, but people lived in it and they still required guards. Fedeyka lived in a medium sized tent with a bright lantern, a table, some chairs, some lockers, and a few bed rolls. He also had a family. There was a little girl with a doll, his wife, Tanya, who Marshall had met only once before, and a teenaged son. "Sit down, make yourself at home. Tanya, help me with this. Ivan go and take your sister outside. Watch her as she plays." Fedeyka pulled a chair and Tanya got some first aid supplies.

"My goodness, Marshall, what happened?" Tanya asked. "This is horrifying. No wonder you sent the children out."

"I could hardly believe it myself. He was out there, no shirt, just these pants and boots. They gave me his revolver. Here, Marshall."

"Keep it for now, my friend," Marshall groaned, "Can you patch my back up?"

"It would be terrible for us not to. Fedeyka, get some of the boiled water I meant for tea. We need it to clean this." Tanya took a rag and began to soak up the blood at the sides of the carved would. Even though it was cauterized it bled.

Fedeyka got the water and poured it into a bowl. Tanya took a clean rag and dipped it in the water then laid it out to cool. After some time, she grabbed the wet rag and began to clean Marshall's wound with the relatively hot rag. He tensed and sucked in sharply as he felt the heat against his stinging wound.

"I'm sorry," Tanya apologized. "The wound is so bloody and dirty. And it's already so enflamed. I think its infected."

Marshal grunted in pain. He tensed once more and bit onto his arm. "No surprise there. It…ack! Ffff…" he resisted the urge to curse as to protect the children outside. The teen was fine, but the little girl was not "ready." He relaxed as the rag finally became painless, but a little irritating. That was, until she brought out the disinfectant.

"This will burn," She warned.

"Better get you something to bight, ah?" Fedeyka grabbed a shirt and gave it to him. "Here, when your done put it on. Don't worry, its clean."

Marshall thanked him then braced for the burn at his back. When it finally came, he bit the shirt and nearly screamed. He tried gripping his chair and whispered curses to see if it would help. It did, but not as much as he'd like. When the burning passed, he finally felt as though his torture was done. And he was right. Tanya dressed the wound then then secured it with some of the duct tape they had on hand. There was nothing else they could use to ensure the bandaging stayed. They didn't have anything else except for a shredded clean shirt.

"There, that should do it," Tanya said clearing the table. "Are you alright now?"

"Much better thanks to you," Marshall sighed. "Thank you, both of you."

"Of course," Fedeyka assured, "I'm always willing to help a friend like you, Marshall. There's not enough of you in the metro. But tell me, why was that on your back? What happened?"

Marshall sighed and hesitated to answer. "First, I want to know. What was it? On my back? What did it look like?"

The two looked at each other. Marshall looked at Tanya who was the most shaken by it. "It was single word. I've only seen tattoos be so neat. It says, 'traitor.'"

Marshall rubbed his neck as if to reach for his label on his back. He swore to himself that he would get that Major even if it killed him. He was determined to kill the real traitor. And he brought several men down with him. Marshall clenched his fists. "There's a man in the station south from here. Kirovskaya Station. His name is Victor. Major Victor. He was my commanding officer until I found out who he was. And he didn't even try hiding it. He burns people alive, kills people just because he thinks they are spies, and even kills his own for trying to talk sense into him. For me, it was different. He gave me a second chance, but I told him to shove it up his…" He paused and looked at the tent door. Tanya gave him a warning look. "Anyway. The payment for my crimes was a new tattoo. The next time was getting shot. But I escaped. I'm trying to get to Theatre station. My Enya is there. My sister."

"Ah, you mean Sweetie, yes? That outstanding performer that brings tears to all the critics that visit the Bolshoi."

"Yes," Marshall smiled, "That one. Ever since my mother had died, she's been the only family I had left. I need to get to her and get her out of there."

"Where will you go?" Fedeyka asked.

Marshall sighed. He thought about that question for some time but having no answer and being asked caught him off guard. "I…I don't know." He rubbed his face then sighed again.

Tanya and Fedeyka looked at each other. They had a telepathic conversation then Tanya gripped Marshall's hand. "Forgive me if it sounds…out of the question. But what about Polis?"

Marshall widened his eyes. "Polis? You can't be serious, they wouldn't except a Red soldier."

"How do they know you are Red?" Tanya asked. She had a point too and she knew it.

Marshall pressed his tongue against his cheek. "Alright, Polis it is. I will just hope and cross my fingers."

"The only thing I would be nervous about is that mark on your back. But since it is covered you should be fine." Fedeyka insisted. "I can help you get it. I know some people who supply the theatre with food and market goods. They will get you in and you can do your part. You will be on your own once inside, but that isn't a problem, right?"

Marshall smirked. "Thank you, my friend. It won't be. Do you have any ammo or weapon I can take?"

"No, I only have my Ashot and shells for that."

Marshall nodded, "I won't take that. The revolver is enough."

Fedeyka nodded back. "Alright, I will talk to my friends. Stay here tonight, we can get you there tomorrow."

Marshall thanked Fedeyka. He rested until the next day, early morning when Fedeyka had woken him.

"Marshall, they are ready for you," He whispered.

Marshall stirred then sat himself us slowly. "What time is it?"

Fedeyka looked at his watch then replied, "Nearly five. You must hurry if you want them to take you. Come, hurry. Change into these cloths, I picked them out for you, should be just your size."

Marshall stood up and put on the cloths consisting of some overalls, a grey overshirt, and a leather jacket. There was also a knitted cap and some gloves. Marshall also collected the revolver he had taken from his executioner. The merchants that Fedeyka talked to met him and Marshall at one of the still working trams along with a few boxes.

"Alright, are you ready?" Asked a merchant.

Marshall nodded and yawned. "Yes, but does it have to be so early in the morning?"

A merchant shook his head and gave Fedeyka a look. "Yes, if you want the guards to be lazy. And this is the only time we planned on leaving. Do you think that you are the only thing we are smuggling in?"

Marshall squinted at them. "What do you mean?"

"We smuggle banned goods that you guys think gets in the way of your Red influence. So far, we've yet to be caught."

Marshall shook his head and looked at Fedeyka. "How long have you been doing this?"

Fedeyka put his hands up. "To be fair, a Red officer is the one who wants it. Not your Major, understand, but a lieutenant. He smokes more than you kill."

Marshall sighed. If he were still a soldier, then he would ensure the lieutenant had been shot. But since he was dead, he would pretend that he didn't hear a thing. "Well, it doesn't matter now. Do what you will. It may also help that they undergo a shift change every six hours. Every number divisible by six to be exact. Just before they change, they will tend to be very lenient. So, where do I need to be to stay hidden?"

"Here, in this box. We'll knock on it when it's safe for you to come out," Answered a Merchant beating a wooden crate.

Marshall gave a sigh. He looked inside seeing nothing but the empty rotten wood and what he could see was rat manure. Fortunately, the crate didn't have any distinct smell except for the wood itself. He climbed in and crouched down to a sit. "Alright, ehm…how long is this trip going to take?"

"An hour or so," Answered a merchant. "So get comfortable… Eh, by the way." He leaned in and asked. "Was what you said about the shifts really…true?"

Marshall smiled then replied, "I bet my life on it. Trust me, I used to be on that watch. Took a few bullets to ignore what was inside a couple of times. I guess we all have a little greed we indulge in once and a while, eh, friend?"

The merchant gave Marshall a satisfied smile. "Right. Good, get comfortable and try to take a nap or something. It is early in the morning, Afterall. Oh, and friend, it can get a little bumpy, try not to fall off, ah?" The merchant chuckled as he put the crate on and tapped it twice. Marshall laid back in the crap space as best he could and tried to get to a satisfying position that wouldn't hurt his back or give his legs room to move so he could feel them. It looked a little more spacious when he had glimpsed at it, but now it felt as small as a rat hole. Marshall had to change positions multiple times in order to help his body withstand the cramped space. He was unable to get any sleep. Finally, Marshall could hear voices outside the crate. A few words were shared, and the rail cart the merchants were using once again started moving. He felt his crate move then get set down. The wood knocked. Marshall stood up, having to move slowly as his knees had finally been given a chance to straighten out.

"At last, I was getting claustrophobic. Alright, where do I need to go from here? What part of the station am I in?" Marshall got out of the crate and sucked in sharply as his legs cramped.

"You're in the Red's storage facility. You'll have to sneak out and find you own way out into the station. We've done our part," Answered one of the merchants. "If you get caught, we don't know you. Don't make us regret helping you."

Marshall grinned and asked for a hand to help pull him up. "Don't, worry, friend. I know my way around. Good luck on your trades and thank you."

The merchants began to unpack the rest of the merchandise and Marshall began to sneak his way outside of the Red base. Once Marshall had slipped out of the base, he then continued to make his way to the Bolshoi Theatre. He passed the market and skipped the line of impatient people. A gangster, seeing him, took hold of him and started shouting. "Hey, bitch! Where do you think you're going, ah? You think you're more important than everyone else? Get in the back of the line before I…"

Before the gangster could finish, Marshall grabbed his hand and put pressure on the wrist, bringing him close and saying aloud, "I have a pass. A VIP." He then went into a whisper. "Yuri, it's me. Let me through."

"Volkov?" He grunted, trying not to holler in pain. Marshall let go and gave a sigh of relief. "Volkov, what are you doing here? I thought you were in Kirovskaya Station."

Marshall looked around and replied, "I was, until they started killing their own men. Major Victor is a madman and practically a fascist. I have a mark on my back to prove it. Listen, I need to get in. Is my sister preforming today?"

"Yes, she is, she's got the opening act," Yuri replied looking around and saying aloud, "Ah, I see. I'm sorry, sir, I didn't realize. Use the other line next time, this way." He pulled the red rope so Marshall could get through. "If you're here, and not dead, what are they going to do?"

"He's probably going to mark me as a runaway traitor. I can't stay in the Red Line anymore. It's not safe."

"Will you go to Polis? They could certainly provide you a home. And since they don't know where you are, they won't be a problem, right?" Yuri asked, leading him inside.

Marshall gave a nod. "I think that too. I don't have any better idea. Yuri, did my things get delivered? Did you see?"

Yuri was silent for a while. "I don't know. I didn't see. I've been working here since four to get ready for this show. It'll begin soon. So, you might as well watch."

"Well, I need you to do something for me. I'll pay good money if you do." Marshall looked around to ensure they weren't being heard. He took him by the shoulder then whispered, "I need you to go to my home and see if my sister got my things. Her maid should be there so she would have received them. If she is there, tell her I sent you and that I need them now. If she doesn't believe you, tell her that my favorite color is blue. She'll know what that means. It's emergency phrase I gave her."

"Okay, and…where do I put them?" Yuri asked.

"Dressing room. In my sister's closet. Also, for payment, tell the maid that you need the tin box on top of the dresser, behind the pots. What's in there is yours now."

"What's in it?" Yuri asked.

"Bullets and a few other things I'd rather leave behind now." Marshall replied. The show host began his speech and Marshall started towards the door. He turned once more asking Yuri, "Can you do this for me?"

Yuri nodded and replied, "I'll get it down before her part of the show ends. Marshall…" Marshall listened to Yuri once more before entering the theatre. "Do come visit an old friend again if you get the chance. It was good seeing you."

Marshall smiled and pat his shoulder, "Yuri, do this for me, and I will do whatever it takes to get your family out of this station and into Polis. That's a promise from an old friend."

"I'll hold you to that. The bullets will do for now." Yuri grinned. "Good luck, my brother."

"And good health to you," Marshall replied. He finally entered the theatre and took a seat near the front closest to the stage and center most. The host went on for a while before finally finishing his speech.

"And without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, an old time, Russian favorite, Katyusha, sung by the Bolshoi Choir. And joining them, Mr. Eugene Garipova and our shining star, Sweetie."

The curtains parted and two lines of men dressed in fine kept suites appeared. An accordion, balalaika, guitar, and piano began to play. The man named Eugene began to sing the first few lines of the old song.

_Apples and pear trees were a-blooming_

_Mist was creeping on the river_

_Katyusha set out on the banks,_

_On the steep and lofty banks_

The choir then joined in. Marshall smiled. He had practiced this song with Sweetie. She was more than ready, but she never skipped a practice. Now, after several weeks, she was preforming it.

_Katyusha set out on the banks,_

_On the steep and lofty banks_

Sweetie appeared from the curtains, the audience applauded her appearance and eagerly waiting for her to begin. Finally as the instrumental had come to her que, her sweet strong voice filled the Bolshoi. She was dressed in a white dress that had managed to stay clean despite what it had probably gone through and some sapphire earrings Marshall had found in a jewelry store on the surface during a surface duty. The dress flowed straight down and sort of sparkled in the old electrical lights. Marshall had to smile. She was so beautiful when she performed.

_She was walking, singing a song_

_About a grey steppe eagle_

_About her true love,_

_Whose letters she was keeping._

Again the choir had joined in and Eugene too. Sweetie and Eugene danced lightly to encourage the crowed to have fun as they watched.

_About her true love,_

_Whose letters she was keeping._

Marshall smiled at her performance. She had yet to notice him, but once her eyes had scanned the crowed, she finally locked her eyes with his. Eugene was again singing his solo.

_Oh your song! Little song of a maiden_

_Head for the bright sun._

Sweetie's smile brightened and she began to sing with more spirit.

_And reach for the soldier on the far away border_

_Along with greeting from Katyusha._

Once again, they sang as one voice, Sweetie and Eugene being the loudest.

_And reach for the soldier on the far-away border_

_Along with greeting from Katyusha._

Eugene and Sweetie took the duet for the final verse. She locked eyes with Marshall as if to check she was preforming at her best.

_Let him remember an ordinary girl,_

_And hear how she sings,_

_Let him preserve the Motherland,_

_Same as Katyusha preserves their love._

The choir joined in once again.

_Let him preserve the Motherland,_

The choir had fell unexpectedly silent, but Sweetie continued the song.

_Same as Katyusha preserves their love._

The song was coming near to an end, but the crowed was comforted when the choir how picked up one more.

_Apples and pear trees were a-blooming_

_Mist was creeping on the river_

Eugene and Sweetie had again picked up the melody as the choir fell silent.

_Katyusha set out on the banks,_

_On the steep and lofty banks_

Again, the entire choir, and the two singers sang in unison to end the song as a finale.

_Katyusha set out on the banks,_

_On the steep and lofty banks_

The instruments ended the song abruptly and the crowed cheered and applauded the choir. The curtains closed and the host walked out in front. "Thank you, Thanks you ladies and gentlemen. But we have not yet heard the last of our beautiful Sweetie. As such, I will keep this short. Please put your hands together as Sweetie sings another old time favorite: Korobeiniki.

The crowed applauded as the curtains again parted. The instruments played a fast and quick introduction and stopped abruptly then calmly began to play as she started to sing. She looked at Marshall for approval and his smile said it all. Every once in a while, as she sang high and low, her eyes would glimpse at him. Someone took the seat next to him. Marshall looked to see Yuri.

"Everything is in place. And I think something is wrong. When I went to get your things, some Reds were asking questions. Not the usual kind too. I think they might have sent word and started searching for you."

"That's unlikely, but better to be safe," Marshall sighed. "Thank you, Yuri."

"That isn't all," Yuri said urgently. "They started pounding on the door to your home when I left. Just in time. They didn't notice I left with all your things. I think they are trying to find you and Sweetie!"

Marshall felt a sickness churn in his stomach. If that was true, they could be there any minute to stop the show and she would learn what spies were treated like. Marshall thought of Sweetie under the mercy of Comrade Major Victor. Unlike him, she could not endure pain as well. She lived an aristocratic life, pain at such a level would be too much for her. "How long is she preforming?"

"She still has three more acts to go! You either have to convince her to leave early or risk three more songs. Your call, I'll watch the door."

"Yuri, you are sure they didn't see you?" Marshall asked, "If they did, they will treat you the same as a spy. You can't stay here anymore either."

"No, friend, they did not," Yuri assured Marshall. "Now do not worry. I will see if the soldiers are close."

"Do you have a flashlight?" Asked Marshall, gripping his arm.

"I do," Yuri replied as he pat his pocket. "What do you want me to do?"

"I will signal at you with mine then you can reply with three flashes if we're safe. One means soldiers are on their way. Watch for the curtains once in a while."

"Right," Yuri said as he stood up again. "Oh, use this to get in the dressing room." Yuri handed a letter. Yuri returned to the doors and Marshall made his way to the dressing room door. A guard eyed him, and Marshall gave the letter to him and waited. When he looked at Sweetie, she was eyeing him suspiciously and a bit worried. He gave her a smile then turned back.

The guard nodded then stepped aside, "Don't touch the girls."

"I won't, my friend, I won't, that's not why I'm here anyway, swear on my mother's head." Marshall smiled as he passed. As soon as he closed the door he muttered under his breath, "If she still had one."

He then began to make his way through the halls where two girls had exited the women's dressing room. "Maria, when are we going on, I need to use the bathroom."

"Not for another half hour, Sweetie is still hogging all the spotlight." She stopped and gasped as Marshall widened his eyes. "Volkov! Come to visit? I thought you had forgotten about me."

"Ah, Maria," Marshall smiled nervously. "I'm terribly sorry. I've been very busy, I haven't got the time to visit you. Could you tell me where Sweetie's room is? I need to speak to her when I get a chance."

"Ugh, Sweetie, don't talk about her with me. She's over there, you heartbreaker. Just do me a favor: keep her quiet when you start. Why does Sweetie get all the fun?"

"What? No, that's not what…never mind." Marshall sighed and passed them then entered the room. Marshall looked into the closet and found his Kalash first thing. Marshall's Kalash was fitted perfectly for a Spetsnaz like himself. With a laser sight, red dot, and thirty round magazines it was very ideal in any situation. Already, there was five magazines full for his Kalash. Also inside was his flashlight, mask, hazmat suite, and bullet proof vest. He quickly changed into the equipment and shouldered his Kalash. He loaded a magazine and chambered it then headed back stage. Sweetie was getting ready for her next act.

Marshall saw her smiling as she was being powdered and complimented. "Sweetie that was beautiful! Just two more songs and we can call it a day."

"Ah, yes. Far too short a time for my adoring fans. So sad that it must end so soon. Only two performances." She sighed dramatically. "And my brother. But couldn't believe my eyes, but it was true. It's him! He's back from his station. I'm rather curious why he is back so soon though. Oh, what am I saying? I'm so happy that he has returned."

"I wish the circumstances were better," Marshall said behind her.

She gasped and turned with a great big smile on her face. "Marshall, I'm so happy to see you! Why are you…"

"Sweetie, you can't preform anymore, we have to go," Marshall said, gripping her arms, "The Reds, there coming."

"But you are a Red, aren't you? Marshall, what's wrong?" Sweetie asked. "Why can't I preform? My fans, they want to see me!"

"The Reds are going to stop the show anyway! And they'll kill you for being a spy!"

"But…I'm not…"

"They know. They only want a reason to kill you. My commanding officer, he's not who he says he is! And the Red Line believes him! He's no better than the Nazis but nobody seems to see that! We have to go, now!"

"Sweetie, your up in sixty seconds." A man said from the stage.

Marshall peaked out of the curtains and flashed once. The flashlight Yuri held flashed once back. Marshall's eyes widened. "Sweetie, we have to go now, they're here!" Sweetie looked at the chorographer who was rushing her then back at Marshall who was doing the same. "Enya, please!"

She looked once more at the choreographer than whispered, "I'm sorry, I cannot stay."

She quickly ran off with Marshall to the choreographer's grief. "But the show! Sweetie!"

Marshall started leading her away from the station. He knew Theatre Station well but because of that knowledge he knew that the Reds would be surrounding the exits. He had to think fast if he was going to get them out. But to the looks of things, that wouldn't be done without a fight.


End file.
